


Ice Ice Baby

by buckgaybarnes, sundaycandy (tickingclocks)



Category: Actor RPF, Olympics RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: 2014 Sochi Olympics AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Decapitation, Ryan Lewis Is A Dog, Various Crash (2005) References, Various Sing-A-Longs, also for some reason basketball is a Winter Olympics sport now it makes sense i swear, ian mckellen and patrick stewart are mutants just fuckin roll with it ok, it was crack and then it reached levels of holiness, please don't ask why cartoon characters exist in this universe, pretty much everyone is gay and Macklemore is trying to marry them, sebastian stan and anthony mackie are each other's booty calls probably who knows, this started as a joke and yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 86,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tickingclocks/pseuds/sundaycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the four gods (Idris Elba, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Liam Neeson, Oprah) came together for their bi-monthly poker game and disagreed on who was the greatest among them, they decided there was only one way to settle it—bringing together their most talented, bravest, gayest worshippers to compete for their honor. Thus, the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics were born. But, there are a few hitches in their plan; hitches in the form of someone attempting to assassinate Queen Elizabeth II, famous babies going missing in Europe, tensions among teammates, and a cunning plan devised by Macklemore and his faithful sidekicks to marry all the gays. Will the Olympics go on, or will things go down in flames?<br/>It's Ice Ice Baby, yo, VIP let's kick it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. National Treasure 3: Lord of the (Olympic) Rings

**Author's Note:**

> "I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something."  
> —Crash

Crickets chirped raucously as they rubbed their legs together sensuously, making the hairs on the back of a certain Nicholas Cage's neck stand up. He slinked through the bushes, chagrined by branches scraping at his pale white skin. No, he wasn't wearing a coat. Yes, it was the middle of Russian winter. We all know what happens during Russian winter.

After tripping over a twig for the fifth time, Nic stumbled upon his target. His head raised slowly, eyes growing wider and glistening against the light of the White Moon Face emoji in the dark sky. It smiled cordially down at him, a soft smile holding the care and compassion of a thousand moons. Though the air was cold, the warmth of such a smile heated up his insides, causing him to grin back.

Nic began his trek up the hill, wearing his custom made bright pink hiking cleats to make the climb a little easier. Once he reached the top, he allowed himself a few seconds of deep breathing, trying to regain his strength to perform his next act. He shrugged the LL Bean backpack off of his broad, masculine shoulders, letting it fall down to the grassy ground. He unzipped it, and reached his hairy arms inside to grab a grappling hook. He swung it around, the metal whipping through the thinness of the soviet air. His shimmering orbs narrowed with anticipation.

Nicholas Cage looks to the camera, eyes unblinking as he delivers the line that would surely win him an Oscar. "We're going to steal the fifth Olympic ring," he says, as the scene flashes to black.


	2. No Church in the Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gods play poker, Liam Neeson wants a bake sale, Idris Elba is attractive, Chiwetel Ejiofor blazes it to Louis Armstrong, and Oprah flips a fucking table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'd like to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue" -- all at the same time. Sometimes now I listen to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound."  
>  -Invisible Man

Liam Neeson smiled wickedly, leaning half of his body over the poker table, taking as many chips as he could into his arms. Oprah groaned, throwing her cards onto the table, resisting the urge to spit in the man's smug face. God, did she hate Liam fucking Neeson.

As Liam reveled in his newfound wealth, mutters of "haha, sucker bitches" coming out of his mouth, Chiwetel rolled over to the stereo in the corner of the room(only the finest rolling chairs for the Divine), and flicked it on, the cool, smooth tunes of Louis Armstrong blaring out of the $5000 speaker system in Idris' home. Chiwetel smiled, resting his head on the plush chair, allowing Louis' voice to caress his eardrums. 

Irritated by both the loudness of "What a Wonderful World" and Liam's snide snickering, Oprah jumped out of her chair and marched over to her least favorite fellow god. "I have had it with this bitch. You think you're better than us--better than me! Do you know who I am? I'm Oprah goddamn Winfrey. I could buy you. I could buy your whole family. I could buy your whole religion! Your followers would have to succumb to my greatness while you stewed in one of my 1,369 diamond encrusted dog cages."

Liam blinked. He crossed his long, hairless, daisy duke'd legs, and cleared his throat before intoning, "Lol you're not great, though."

Oprah's left eye twitched. She wished so very deeply to choke something.

The previously silent Idris arose, settling his deft hands onto Oprah's tense shoulders. "Calm down," he cooed with his oaky voice, which immediately soothed the former talkshow host. She cracked her neck and nodded, returning to her mobile throne. 

Chiwetel pulled out a blunt and began to blaze it as the song changed to "What did I do (to be so black and blue)?" The reefer coursed through his respiratory system, sending him into a world of utter bliss. "These tones..." he whispered. "They're so...warm...and dulcet."

Idris kneeled in front of Liam, giving him one of those "ya done goofed, son" looks with this smoldering eyes. "What did I tell you about starting fights with Oprah?"

Liam sneered. "That they're fun as hell." He side-stepped the god of paternal hotness, and made his way over to his beloved adversary. "I'm the best out of all you desertwhores here. Especially," he stuck his index finger up, spinning it around before pointing it into Oprah's face. "You."

She pushed him out from in front of her and was up again, ready to raise as much heck as possible. She flipped over the poker table, and--

Yes, Oprah Winfrey flipped over a poker table. Deal with it.

\--And wrapped her fingers around Liam's throat, her bright raspberry colored nails digging into his immortal flesh. "I don't give a SHREK what you say, Neeson. You know I'm the greatest. Say it! I want to hear you say it!"

The currently-being-choked god coughed instead of following her orders, causing the hold on his throat to become even tighter. Liam's mayonnaise-white face turned into a more purple hue, which isn't actually possible seeing as they're gods, but whatever. 

The sound of a throat clearing interrupted Oprah's attempt-at-murdering. 

It was Chiwetel. 

"Ya know," he said, voice hoarse. "Should it really matter who's the best?" He blew a puff of smoke into the air. "Especially because the best is me ayy lmao."

Another verbal brawl broke out, Liam pulling Oprah's hair as he elbowed him in his toned gut. Chiwetel cackled in the background, as Idris shook his head in shame((because he knew he was the greatest)).

Realizing that Oprah smashing a beer bottle into Liam's face was a step a tad too far, Idris intervened, donning his helmet that he stole off the set of Thor: the Dark World, and shouting "calmeth your bosoms you idle fuckboys!"

Everyone ceased their movements, a still scene of Liam's bleeding visage, Oprah's arm raised preparing to give another blow, and Chiwetel inching toward the stereo to turn up the volume appeared before Idris. He sighed. "Sit down."

Once everyone had obeyed and settled down in their be-wheeled thrones, the table still overturned, Idris inhaled before saying, "We need to settle this. This isn't the first time a conflict like this has arose. We need to figure out a way to prove which one of us is the best." Liam raised his hand. "A way that doesn't involve disembowelment." His hand rested in his lap. "Any ideas?"

"An audit."

"A shoot out."

"A bake sale."

Everyone turned to look at Liam. "What? Everyone loves cookies."

Idris suddenly stood up, eyes bright. "I've got it! Since, obviously we can't seem to come to some sort of common ground with each other, then we should put the decision in the hands of our followers. They reflect us, right?" Everyone nodded. "Then what better way to prove our greatness through them? Let's hold an Olympics!" 

Another hand rose in the air. "What could you possibly have to say, Chiwetel?" He said, slightly defeated.

"Didn't the Olympics just end? Why would any of our followers on Earth want to throw another one?"

Idris chuckled, a beautiful chuckle that sent chills down everyone's spines. "Oh, believe me, my friends," he folded his hands behind his back. "They'll want to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so ugly


	3. Joseph Biden and the Amazing Technicolor Foreign Policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joe Biden breaks a mug, Steve Harvey and Don Cheadle unintentionally drag race Bill Murray and Tom Hanks, Samuel Jackson takes selfies, and Queen Elizabeth II hates everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." -Bill Clinton

Joseph Biden filed his already perfectly manicured nails as his good friend, Barack droned on and on about """healthcare""" and """military alliances""" and """come on, Joe are you even paying attention""". Joe yawned. Why couldn't they ever talk about something actually _interesting_? Like how damn fine he was looking right now? Or how he may have accidentally broken Barack's "Most Presidential Dad" mug from his daughters the other day? Okay, maybe they shouldn't talk about that.  
  
Before the Vice President knew it, Barack's snapping fingers were shoved into his face. "JOE," he said in all-caps. "What the double fuck, man? I've been talking to you for the past three hours and all you seem to care about is your nails--which are lovely by the way." B-rock began to rub his temples. "There's no way we're gonna be able to effectively protect the Queen if you keep going into your weird little Biden world."  
  
Joe was stunned. "Wait...what is this about Queen?! Are they getting back together? Are you resurrecting Freddie Mercury? Are you?!" He grabbed at the first Blafrican American president's prim lapels. "Don't play with me, Barack!"  
  
POTUS cocked his head and gave his inferior a dismayed look, peeling the older man's very smooth hands off of his jacket. " _The_  Queen, Joseph. Queen Elizabeth II. You know, the lady we've had slumber parties with at least fifteen times now?"  
  
Joey frowned. "You never invite me along with you to those."  
  
Barack looked pained. "Oh...yeah, sorry about that." He crossed his well-muscled arms. "Anyway, we've been called to go across the pond because some psychos are trying to put a hit on our biggest ally. We need to be there by tonight for a strategy meeting with her advisors." He sighed, shaking his head. "It's all very short notice, but, you know, that's what happens when someone tries to murder your ass, am I right ladies."  
  
The other man nodded. "Alright, I see. Well, in that case, we should leave now. Wouldn't want an angry Lizzie on our hands, now would we?"  
  
Barack scrunched his eyebrows. "Please don't call her that."  
  
"Sure, whatever, lol."  
  
"Okay," the commander in chief said, putting on his patented swagglasses. "Let's Barack and roll."

* * *

Don Cheadle stepped out the airport, one hand clutching his suitcases tightly while the other shielded his eyes from the watery, late-afternoon Russian sun. He hoped it wouldn't be too hard to hail a taxi; jet lag was already starting to take its toll on him. There was a thump next to him, and Don turned to smile at his skating partner, Steven Harvey, as the larger man dropped his suitcase on the ground. Judging by the yawn Steve stifled a second later, Don was not the only one feeling the effects of the 8-hour time difference.

  
"Wow," Don said, turning to his teammate and giving him a small smile. "We're actually _in Russia_ , Steve!"  
  
Steve hoisted his suitcases back up, grumbling under his breath. "Let's just get to the damn hotel," he said, before yawning again. A taxi was stopped in front of them, and after he and the driver exchanged a wave, Steve began dragging his luggage to it.  
  
"You could at least _pretend_ to be excited, Steve," Don said with an (albeit fond) eyeroll. He started lugging his own bags to the open trunk of the taxi where Steve was already tossing his stuff in. "Considering we're, you know, competing in _the Olympics_."  
  
Both men slid into the backseat, and Steve shoved a few bills of Russian currency into the taxi driver's hand ("Damn Russian money,") and attempted to tell him the name of the hotel Coach Paul Mooney had booked them in. _Attempted_ because, well, the taxi driver didn't actually seem to understand English and Don's only brush with the language came from what little he had studied in college (which is to say, none). A quickly downloaded Google Translate app on Steve's iPhone and its "speak aloud" function later, the taxi was making its way towards their hotel (which was named "Hotel Rwanda", something that made Don chuckle).  
  
"Sorry, Don," Steve finally said once they had been on the road for a bit, leaning back in the car seat and closing his eyes. "Just tired."  
  
Don nodded. "Did you find someone to take over your show for you while we're here?" he asked.  
  
Steve opened one eye, clearly not interested in talking at the moment. "Some kid named Arson Hall. Or maybe it was Arsenic. Now shut up and let me sleep."  
  
(The kid had seemed a little too eager to take over for him, Steve thought to himself. Almost like he expected to have the job permenantly. It was probably just him being paranoid, though.)  
  
As Steve slowly drifted back off to sleep, Don couldn't help but smile.  
  
The peaceful reverie of the two men ended abruptly when their driver suddenly slammed his foot on the brakes, blasting the car horn as a stream of Russian profanities escaped his mouth. Don looked up just in time to see a periwinkle Prius with bright orange and yellow flames airbrushed on the sides speed past them, effectively cutting them off and interrupting the steady flow of traffic. As the taxi driver flipped his middle finger up at the Prius, Steve jerked awake fully.  
  
"Who the _fuck_ was that? he growled.

\--  
  
The driver of the pastel-hued Prius was, in fact, one Mr. William "Bill" Murray who was, coincicentally, headed to the same destination as Don and Steve.  
  
"Those guys looked _pissed_ back there," Bill Murray's close friend and skating partner, Tom Hanks, pointed out, whistling low as he craned his neck to see better out the back window of their shared Prius. "Like, come-after-you-in-the-middle-of-the-night-with-pitchforks pissed. Are you sure you don't want me to drive for a bit?"  
  
"I'm a perfectly good driver," Bill insisted, swerving the car violently and narrowly avoiding hitting a bus.  
  
Tom said a silent prayer.

\--

"Nah, I'm sorry," Steve Harvey said in a tone that Don had dubbed the 'Survey Says You're A Little Bitch' Voice. He leaned forward in his seat, jabbing the taxi driver in his back. "'S'cuse me, can you speed up?"  
  
Don massaged his temple gently. "He speaks Russian, Steve. He can't—"  
  
But judging from the look on the tax driver's face, he understood at least somewhat; the fact that he nodded enthusiastically and floored it a second later also contributed to this hypothesis. As the taxi swerved around a minivan and a school bus, Don looked at Steve in horror.  
  
"What did you do?" he said, gripping onto the back of the passenger's seat to avoid getting knocked around the backseat. "What—?!"  
  
"Calm down," Steve told him, arms splayed casually behind his head as the taxi sped on, horns blaring at them from all sides. "Nothing wrong with a little competition."  
  
Up ahead, Tom looked out of the back of the car nervously. "Bill," he said, trying to sound casual, "that taxi we, um, cut off. It's behind us."  
  
Bill furrowed his brow. "I—?"  
  
The taxi zoomed past the small Prius, and Bill jerked the wheel hard to the left to avoid being side-swiped. He heard a shout of "Later, bitches!" from the taxi before it continued to speed ahead, weaving in and out of traffic.  
  
"That can't be legal," Tom remarked mildly.  
  
Bill slammed down hard on the gas pedal.  
  
"Damn," Steve said, squinting out of the back window of the taxi. "Looks like they've got the same idea as us."  
  
Don slumped down in the car seat. "I need a drink," he said weakly. The taxi's speed increased, their driver shouting something in Russian angrily, egged on by Steve's own colorful exclamations.  
  
The Prius and the taxi were now head-to-head, forcing cars into other lanes and speeding through stoplights; it was a wonder the police weren't on their trail.  
  
"The hotel is right ahead!" Tom exclaimed, grabbing onto the wheel and trying to take it from Bill. "You're going to miss it!"  
  
Bill struggled to keep the wheel from Tom, staring ahead with-single minded determination. "No I'm not, stop—!" With a crow of triumph, Tom managed to jerk the steering wheel in the direction of the entrance of Hotel Rwanda—  
  
—and straight into the taxi.  
  
A squealing of brakes, the smell of burnt rubber, one blocked hotel entrance, and miraculously no injuries later, Tom removed his hands from where they'd been covering his eyes.  
  
"Shit," Bill said, hands still on the wheel even though the Prius was quite in place. He blinked.  
  
"I'm going to need so much alcohol," Don sighed, opening the side door of the taxi and stumbling out, just as Tom opened the door of the Prius and practically fell out of it.  
  
The two men stared at each other in dawning comprehension.  
  
Tom sighed. "Of _course_."  
  
Don groaned. "You have to be kidding me."  
  
"What?" Steve said, poking his head out from the still-open taxi window, just as Bill shoved open the driver's side door of the Prius and said "Who is it?"  
  
"Steve Harvey and Don Cheadle," Tom said miserably, turning back to face Bill. "Aka, the Bronze Duo. Aka, our competition for the goddamn Olympics."  
  
"We drag raced Team All-American Wonder Bread?" Steve said in horror. " _Shit_. Coach Mooney is going to flay us alive."  
  
Don really, _really_ needed a drink.

* * *

"Welcome to Buckingham Palace, comrades," head advisor to the Queen, Maggie Smith greeted. "It's so lovely to have you back, Mr. President." She opened up her arms for a hug, allowing Barack to sink into her warm, comforting arms of pure bliss. When they disconnected, Maggie glanced at Joe, who's arms, too, were opened. She nodded and began walking down the ornately decorated hallway, leaving an already grumpy Joseph with a frown.

  
The crew, which included our favorite presidential duo, the Clintons, and Michelle (who was quite irked at the fact that her husband had succeeded in convincing her to bring the beloved First Dog, Bo), followed Maggie in all her grace, down several hallways and flights of seemingly never-ending stairs until they reached a pair of large, red doors. When Maggie knocked, a small window near her face opened, followed by a male voice asking for a password. The advisor cleared her throat delicately, and spoke in a surprisingly good impression of Nicki Minaj, "you can be the king but watch the queen conquer".  
  
With that, the window shut and the doors opened, revealing the Queen's room that held the queen herself, a towering Samuel L. Jackson, and, shockingly, Mitt Romney.  
  
"What the fuck is Shit Romney doing here?!" Barack demanded, ripping off his swagglasses and marching up towards his old enemy. Mitt scowled, which made him look just as constipated as all of his other facial expressions made him look.  
  
"Back off, Bacock," Mitt spat back, oh so pleased with himself for coming up with something so remotely clever. "I was invited here, just like you. Only difference is that I'm gonna be way more help to the queen than you are."  
  
The heir to the American throne growled, eyes squaring up and preparing to teach the fuckass nerd before him how they do it in the White House, but was interrupted by the sound of the saxophone intro to Careless Whisper. When both men turned to the source of such a mystical sound, they were met with the sight of Bill playing the instrument with such passion that their mutual anger melted.  
  
A single tear from Samuel L. Jackson's eye. "Tragically beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with sorrow.  
  
When Bill finished, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, the queen began to clap slowly, truly speechless from such a powerful performance. Soon, the entire room was filled with claps from all of the political figures. Bill bowed, albeit modestly, as he stuffed his sax back into it's case that he must have been holding the entire time.  
  
When the applause ceased, the Queen directed everyone over to the long, oak table in the center of the room. Once all were seated, she crossed her fingers on the table and inhaled. "I think we all know why we're here, today."  
  
Joe nodded eagerly. "Yeah! You're bringing Queen back! It's amazing what technology can do these days." Out of the corner of his eyes, Joe could make out Barack slapping his hand to his forehead.  
  
The Queen blinked. "No." She looked up at her still standing advisor and bodyguard, signaling them to continue for her. Sam obliged.  
  
"Ya see," he said, pointing to the projector screen that Maggie was yanking down to show a smiling picture of the queen. "There are some grade-A fools out there trying to assassinate the fuck out of our dearest Queen. A month ago, a sniper shot at her, but thankfully, just when the shot was made, she bent down to pick up a lucky pence." The screen changed to show the currency along with the evidence of the bullet.  
  
"Then, the very same assholes slashed the tires of the Swaggin' Wagon, which stopped the queen from getting to the hospital when she had a tummy ache." The picture transitioned to a candid of the Queen driving her royal automobile. Her majesty huffed--she truly did hate that picture.  
  
"And, most recently, they tried to sneak an alligator into the palace, which I...I don't really know how they thought they were gonna get away with that, but I don't judge." The screen showed a selfie that Sam had taken at the end of their last royal meeting. "Fuck, how did that get in there?!"  
  
"So...what do you expect us to do about this, again?" Joe asked, tactlessly, causing both Michelle and Hillary to slap him upside his lil head. "What??? It was an honest question!"  
  
Maggie sighed. "As our allies, it is your duty to help us out of this rough time. Currently, no one outside of this room knows about this, and we would like it to stay that way. Everyone is so distracted by the upcoming Olympics; the last thing we need is a world-wide assassination scandal." She shuddered. "I can already see the conspiracy theorists on your Fox News having a field day with this."  
  
Mitt stood up and saluted at the queen. "I swear on Bill's musical skills that we will do anything we can to help you, your highness." Barack rolled his eyes. _What a kiss-up_.  
  
Joe joined in agreement. "Yeah, Lizzie, you can count on us. I've been told that I'm as trustworthy as a dead python, whatever that means."  
  
The whole room went silent. Irritated, Joe screamed, "what did I do now?"  
  
If looks could kill, the glare that the VP was receiving from the Head of the Commonwealth would have made sure that he had never even been born.  
  
Maggie coughed loudly. "Well, um, I suppose we should all get to strategizing before the plane leaves for Russia?"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa," Hillary interjected. "Since the hell when are we going to Russia?"  
  
"The Queen has several appearances to make at the Olympics, and because we've enlisted you limpnoodles to help protect her, y'all have to come with." Sam answered as he took another selfie.  
  
"I never agreed to this," Bill muttered. Bo barked in response.  
  
"We'll be able to accommodate you when it comes to the hotel rooms, so no need to worry." Maggie added. Barack leaned back in his chair.  
  
"I suppose we have no choice. Is it cool with you, gang? Going to Sochi?" There were no protests except for the quiet sound of grumbling from both Joe and Bill but no one cares about them so Barack continued with, "alrighty, I guess we're going to the Olympics."  
  
Bobama jumped on the table, wagging his doggy tail. "I guess Bo's happy about it," commented Michelle as she attempted to remove the K9 from the table.  
  
"Yeah, lots of Russian bitches for him!"  
  
The room fell silent again.  
  
"Can you guys stop doing that," Joe pleaded as Barack began hitting his head repeatedly against the oak surface.


	4. Frosty Runnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rinko Kikuchi is accidentally assaulted by Jasika Nicole's purse and may or may not fall a little bit in love with Zoe Saldana, George Blagden laments the bad quality of airport coffee, Pharrell is unable to not speak in song lyrics, Chris Evans is shirtless, and a minor baggage mix-up takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme, get on up, it's bobsled time!" -Cool Runnings

"The I-19 flight from Sochi to Chicago departs in twelve minutes," a silky female voice spoke through the speakers of Sochi International Airport. Rinko Kikuchi tapped her foot anxiously on the bubble gum stained floor in front of the Baggage Claim rotated, eagerly waiting for her three leather suitcases holding her clothes, electronics, toiletries, and most importantly, her luge equipment.  
  
Her parents had been ecstatic when she got the phone call announcing her entrance in the Olympic Games a few years ago, but as time went on, they had gotten more and more apprehensive. To start things off, they didn't exactly like Russia, disgusted by their government and hideous tourist sites. Then, there was the news that their precious daughter would be the only singles player in the luge competition, putting her at an automatic disadvantage. Rinko immediately saw this as a challenge, and not a setback, and tried to tell her parents so, but to no avail.  
  
There was also the fact that this would be the first time that Rinko had gone to such a far away place by herself. Her coach, R. Kelly, had chosen to take his private plane instead of traveling on Business class with his protégé, leaving the poor girl alone at the airport, without a bit of knowledge of the Russian language to help her out as the conveyer belt passed by for the eighteenth time without her luggage. What was she supposed to do if her stuff hadn't come in? She was going to need it for practice the next morning. At this point, Rinko was beyond nervous, and seriously hating her first hour in Russia.  
  
"Maybe Mom and Dad were right," she muttered to herself. She wasn't ready to go on such an endeavor alone. Why did the Olympic council choose her? She was just plain old Rinko--overprotected cute bitch that loved the snow. What interest would the Olympics have in that?  
  
Suddenly, she was knocked into from behind by a rather large tote bag, sending her falling onto the aforementioned disgusting floor. A cry of "oh, my Oprah!" sounded from the direction of the runaway bag, and Rinko was lifted up by a pair of surprisingly muscled, but thin arms.  
  
Her eyes were met with a beautiful, well-sculpted face. She gasped at the sight of it, nearly causing her to fall again. A woman who had appeared next to her and the person who helped her up, spoke in adorable tones, "I am so, so, so, so, so, so sorry! I was messing around with my bag and my grip must have loosened and it went flying right into your back! I am so, so, so, so, so, so--"  
  
"Alright, Jasika," the woman who was now releasing Rinko interrupted. "She gets it: you're sorry. Maybe you should work on finding those embroidered suitcases while I make sure you didn't maim the poor girl with your five hundred pound bag." Jasika rolled her eyes with a smile and sashayed towards the conveyer belt. The woman turned to Rinko who was still reeling from everything. "You okay, hon?"  
  
Disoriented, Rinko giggled, liking the way the word "hon" sounded coming out of the mystery lady's mouth. She straightened herself quickly, knowing that if anyone was going to take her seriously during the Games, she would have to _act_ seriously. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little surprised. I mean, yeah, I'm covered in Russian gum, but I've had worse substances on me." Rinko cringed, wanting to quickly assure that she meant substances like bird poop but it was too late.  
  
"Oh," was all the woman could say before quickly changing the subject to, "You look...familiar. Kinda like that singles player that Jas and I are competing against. We're lugers, FYI. What's your name?"  
  
Instead of answering, Rinko stared at the woman, mouth agape. _This_  was the lady she was playing against?! She wouldn't last a second on the luge track!  
  
" _Rinko! Stop thinking this nonsense! I know we've been working more on your people skills rather than your lugin' skills, but that's because. Believe in you!_ " The ominous voice of R. Kelly sung into her head. " _We did not go to all those damn motivational seminars for nothing, girl! Have confidence in yourself! Believe...believe that you can fly down that track with the speed of a thousand goddess cheetahs. I believe all the time! I believe I can fly...I believe I can touch the sky...think about it every night and day...spread my wings and fly away...I believe I can soar...think about it every open doooooor. I believe I can fly...I believe I can fly...I believe I can fly_." His velvety voice faded out as Rinko was faced with snapping fingers, bringing her out of her shock.  
  
"Um, that would be me...I'm Rinko Kikuchi, professional luger. I'm v-very thrilled to play you and your partner." She smiled nervously, running a hand through her fab ass pixie cut. The woman's features morphed into a beam, followed by squeal.  
  
"It's you! Well, pardon Jas a thousand times more. Jasika!" She yelled over to her partner who had finally come across their bags. Her head piped up. "You almost knocked out our competition! You know that's against the rules!" Jasika put her delicate hands to her mouth, guilt on her face. "No more 'I'm sorries', you worry-wart, you're letting our bags get away!" The woman held out her hand to Rinko and introduced herself. "I'm Zoe Saldana: perfection personified that happens to play luge and act on the side. You were in Pacific Rim with your god, right?"  
  
Rinko nodded furiously. Getting to breath the same air as Idris Elba had been the biggest privilege she had ever received. She faintly recalled fainting when first greeted with his gorgeous face.  
  
"Well," Zoe began, taking one of the suitcases that Jasika had offered her. "It'll sure be fun playing against you. Ya know, seeing as we're the only all-female sport this year, everyone's waiting for us to claw each other's eyes out in a form of bitchiness, but I wanna prove those scrotums wrong. Lets be pals, Kikuchi. Meet Jas and I at the Russian IHOP on Stalin drive  tomorrow after practice. Here's my number." She reached into Rinko's coat pocket and took out the phone that she somehow knew would be there. She deftly entered in her number, and slipped the cellular device back in. She winked and began walking away, towards the revolving doors the lead to the frigid outdoors where Team Lesbehonest's taxi was waiting patiently. Jasika waved to the singles player and Rinko waved back, left surprised but also pleased as she watched their retreating forms.  
  
She felt a smile creep up onto her lips, which turned into an even bigger one when she heard her phone ring in the tune of R. Kelly's "Step in the name of Love". That smile fell slightly when she realized that the call was not, in fact, from her new friend, but from R. Kelly himself. She answered with a swipe of the screen, expecting her coach's usual "aye girl what's up" but instead receiving a "Where the hell are you?! I picked up your shit already, I've been waiting outside for the past hour and a half. Are you dead--" Rinko clicked the "end" button, jaw setting with anger. Had she really spent a good thirty minutes of her life watching as the same ugly bags passed by on the belt when it turned out fucking R. Kelly had decided to surprise her by picking them up himself.  
  
"That asshole better hope I don't trap _him_ in a closet," she seethed, stomping out of the airport.

* * *

"I am so gay," George Blagden sighed, taking a sip of his caramel macchiato and lamenting its severe lack of whipped cream. "Also, this coffee is terrible." He made a face at the cup like it had personally called his mother a whore. A feat that was, in reality, impossible due to the fact that coffee cups could not _actually_ talk (let alone refer to someone's mother in such a derogatory sense.)  
  
Aaron Tveit rolled his eyes. "That's what you get for making me buy you airport coffee," he pointed out, before suddenly stumbling forward. He gave a huff of frustration; the wheels on George's suitcase had jammed again. " _Why_ am I the one who has to carry your stuff again?" he added, scowling at George as he gave the suitcase a violent tug.  
  
George gave him his best charming smile. "My hands are full," he said, gesturing to the guitar case slung over his shoulder and taking a sip of his coffee to make his point (and subsequently cringing at its taste). Aaron made a noise like a strangled cat at his teammate.  
  
The airport loudspeakers crackled overhead, a long litany of Russian words that Aaron had about as much hope as understanding as he did getting George's damn suitcase to not suddenly cease rolling every few seconds. He hoped they were going in the right direction. (He also hoped that they had actually landed in Sochi. The signs around the airport were not very clear, given the fact that they were—as one would expect in a foreign country—not written in English.)  
  
"We've been wandering through here _forever_ ," George almost-whined, adjusting his guitar case strap. "I'm tired. And I want coffee that doesn't taste like death and the caramel-flavored tears of children." He made to toss his coffee into a convienently placed trashcan nearby, but Aaron stopped him by grabbing his wrist.  
  
"Okay, first, we're not lost. The exit is right up there," Aaron said calmly, pointing to the double doors that lay just ahead of the pair. "Second," he continued, shoving the coffee back at George, "You stole my money to pay for this. Drink it."  
  
George pulled his arm away, looking a little pink. "Acquired your money to pay for this," he corrected, rubbing his wrist with a mock-hurt expression. " _Acquired_."  
  
"Acquired it from my wallet in my back pocket, you mean."  
  
George shrugged, taking another sip of the drink. "See, this is what I mean when I say you're too focused on tiny details."  
  
"Like theft?"  
  
"Like theft."  
  
The loudspeakers crackled again, and Aaron shot a look at his wristwatch. "Come on," he said, grabbing onto George's sleeve with one hand and tightening his grip on their suitcases with the other. He tugged both in the direction of the exit. "We have to check into the hotel."  
  
George grinned at his teammate, following him towards the doors. "Look out, Olympics," he said, slipping his arm out of Aaron's grasp to sling it around his shoulder instead, "Team Oui Trés Homo is coming to—"  
  
Both men tripped and tumbled to the ground in a heap as the suitcase got stuck again.

* * *

"Hat, you are possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me," cooed Pharrell Williams as he stroked his big, beautiful, and bodacious grey hat. "Don't let any of those fuckers tell you otherwise, alright?"  
  
The hat somehow managed to nod; or perhaps Pharrell had just made the accessory do that. Who knows.  
  
He caught the taxi driver eyeing him through the rear view mirror before swiftly looking away. The singer/rapper smirked. She didn't understand, but oh, we would make her over the course of their drive to Hotel Rwanda.  
  
"'Excuse me, miss'," he said, leaning over, making sure to name drop as many of his song titles as possible. "But it would make me very 'happy' if you would stop being so jealous and 'get like me' and this hat instead of 'frontin' like a big loser. 'I know' it will be hard, but with the help of my glowing presence, you and I will get along swimmingly." The driver swerved a bit in anger. "Watch the road, the street painters must have been drunk as fuck because these are some seriously 'blurred lines'."  
  
The Russian driver stopped the cab immediately, causing several cars behind them to rear end each other. "That's it, I quit." She exited the taxi with a quickness, leaving Team Arby's alone. Pharrell sighed and placed his hat atop his head.  
  
"Guess I won't 'get lucky' tonight, huh?" A loud female growl could be heard in the distance.

* * *

Their plan was simple. Once they arrived at Hotel Rwanda, he'd drop Sebastian off to check in and get their room keys while he parked their car and brought in their luggage. Time would be saved, they wouldn't argue over a parking spot, and he might even let Sebastian drag him off to that bar down the road they had passed on the way in.  
  
Thirty minutes of the hell that was known as the parking lot of Hotel Rwanda later, Chris Evans realized that their plan may or may not have been shot. (Or, more appropriately, completely ridden with bullet holes.)  
  
"What took you so long?" Chris's _Captain_ _America_ co-star (and now teammate) Sebastian Stan asked him grumpily from where he was lounging on one of the twin beds of the hotel room. He didn't bother to look up when Chris entered. "I've been waiting for half an hour. I've gone though every channel on the TV set."  
  
"A couple of idiots crashed into each other in the parking lot," Chris said with a sigh, dropping their suitcases on the ground. He closed the door behind him. "Caused one hell of a back-up. One of them had a really ugly Prius, too." He crossed the small hotel room, sitting on the edge of the bed Sebastian was not occupying. It creaked rather worryingly beneath him.  
  
Sebastian snorted, sitting up to face Chris. "I think your manly physique is too much for it to handle, Captain," he said, stressing the last word.  
  
Chris winced. "Don't," he groaned, "I get enough of that during filming."  
  
Sebastian laughed again before flopping backwards onto the bed, head hitting the pillow in a rather cliche rom-com fashion.  
  
A second later, a pillow was hurled at his chest. Sebastian made a small noise like a kicked puppy.  
  
"You said we could get dinner," Chris complained, frowning at Sebastian.  
  
"'M too tired."  
  
"I wanted to go to that bar."  
  
"Go by yourself." Sebastian picked up the pillow Chris had thrown at him and pulled it over his head in an effort to block the other man out.  
  
" _Sebastian_ ," Chris huffed.  
  
Sebastian burrowed his head further under the pillows. He made a slightly muffled noise of dissent as Chris threw another pillow at him. He did, however, jump a little when there was a sudden weight on the edge of his bed and someone poked him in the side.  
  
"Sebastian," Chris repeated, far too close to Sebastian's ear for his liking. "Stop being lame."  
  
Sebastian rolled over, knocking Chris to the ground (albeit gently), and glared at him. "Stay out of my bed."  
  
Chris raised an eyebrow. "That's the first time anyone has ever told me that," he said, clearly struggling not to smile.  
  
Sebastian turned pink. "I—"  
  
"It's fine, Seb," Chris said, actually smiling as he stood up. "But, you're right. We should go to bed early. Coach Ruffalo wants us on the slopes first thing tomorrow morning."  
  
Sebastian nodded. "Yeah, ri—"  
  
Whatever he was going to say was quickly cut off as Chris suddenly yanked off his shirt and tossed it to the floor, subsequently short-circuiting any and all speaking abilities Sebastian had previously possessed.  
  
"Shower," Chris explained briefly, making his way to their shared hotel room bathroom. He gave Sebastian another brief smile before disappearing into it.  
  
The shower turned on.  
  
"I'm so screwed," Sebastian sighed to the room, still looking at the spot that had previously been vacated by an extremely shirtless Chris Evans.

* * *

"Where the heckie is my luggage?" Lupita Nyong'o questioned forlornly as she sat down on one of the benches in front of Sochi International. She prayed to her dearest god Chiwetel that she wasn't going to have to struggle through the Olympics without her ice skates (or her chapstick that she stole back from Ellen goddamn Degeneres). She rummaged through her handbag, hoping with every might of her beautiful being that maybe, just maybe, her pink lemonade flavored lip moisturizer was in there. But, alas, her search came up empty. She grabbed her sapphire studded phone that matched her sapphire colored eyeshadow and dialed her coach's number.

  
"I don't have time for no nonsense," deadpanned Angela Bassett.  
  
Lupita rolled her eyes and replied, "I think I may have lost my luggage. It's--"  
  
"Didn't I just say I don't have time for nonsense lol bye."  
  
The dull beeping tone sounded signifying that the call had ended, leaving Lupita frustrated. She dropped the phone back into her purse and looked out at the busy street in front of her. She crossed her arms and pouted adorably, throwing her amazingly coifed hair onto the back of the bench.  
  
"Fuck Russia, tbh."  
  
Meanwhile, Rinko was unpacking her luggage as R. Kelly sexted in her bathroom, only to find a mint green suitcase that sure as hell didn't belong to her. She unzipped it, curiosity moving her, and opened it to reveal several custom made, short, and very sparkly dresses that looked to be the proper vestments of an ice skater. "Shit," she muttered, just as R. Kelly screamed "damn, my battery just died!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do u ever just think about chris evans's chest


	5. Frosty Runnings (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mike Meyers accidentally traumatizes a child, the authors did extensive research concerning Robin Williams's middle name, Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake have a minor lover's spat while Peyton Manning goes all Michael Jordan in "Space Jam", Jennifer Lawrence is quirky, Al Roker won't put on pants, and our favorite all-female luge teams eat (Russian) IHOP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Where in the world is Matt Lauer?" -Katie Couric, probably.

Michael “Mike” Meyers shifted uncomfortably against the hard backing of his airplane recliner, inwardly cursing the past version of himself that had so heavily insisted upon having the window seat. It seemed like a good idea at the time; he could enjoy the view while simultaneously not be at risk for having people (and/or beverages) fall on him. He wasn’t, however, accounting for the woman and her 6-year-old son to sit in the aisle behind him. He also wasn’t accounting for the restless 6-year-old boy to decide to sit right behind him and kick his legs against the back of Mike’s seat like it was a fuckin’ soccer ball.  
  
The kicking had been going on for an hour now; the relentless pounding of the child’s feet against his back had become a sort of sick mantra—a new form of Chinese waterboarding, if you will.  
  
Mike wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last.  
  
“ _Why_ didn’t you book us seats in first class again?” Mike asked his travelling companion, Eddie Murphy, angrily. His query was punctuated with an angry growl as the kid kicked again, a little harder this time.  
  
Eddie smiled apologetically, giving Mike a shrug before reverting his attention back to the book he had brought along for the flight—something called _Sex, Love, and You_. Mike was about to press him for an _actual_ answer that involved the use of mouth movement and vocal chords when the kid behind him decided to start throwing a tantrum, whining loudly and kicking his legs against Mike’s chair erratically.  
  
That was when Mike snapped.  
  
Had he not been wearing a seatbelt and had they not been on an airplane, Mike may very well have literally vaulted himself over the back of the chair and throttled the kid. (There was also the fact that the kid was, as previously mentioned, a kid, and while minor strangulation may occasionally be condoned in cases of annoying adults the same cannot be said for when it comes to annoying children.)  
  
As it was, Mike simply spun around in his seat the best that he could, and snarled out a loud “Lady, tell your _fucking_ kid to stop assaulting my back.”  
  
Eddie nearly dropped his book as he stared at Mike in shock. The woman also stared at Mike in shock. Most of the surrounding passengers, as a matter of fact, stared at Mike in shock. The kid, however, stared at Mike in what was more akin to abject horror before bursting into tears and hiding his face against his mother’s chest. “Mom,” the kid sobbed (and if the brat hadn’t kicked away what little remained of Mike’s compassion some ten minutes into the flight he _might’ve_ felt guilty), “Shrek just _cussed_ at me!”  
  
The woman glared extremely sharp daggers at Mike and attempted to console her son.  
  
Mike was hit with the inappropriate desire to laugh hysterically. He was also hit with the desire to sob uncontrollably along with the child. Before he could make up his mind, Eddie laid a calming hand on his shoulder, frowning.  
  
“Look,” Eddie began with a sigh, folding up the book and shoving it into the compartment on the back of the seat in front of him. “I know you’re tense, and worried about everything—the flight, the Olympics…” He swallowed heavily, and his next word was thick with emotion, “…Cameron...”  
  
Mike looked down, ignoring the tears that were stinging his eyes. “What if we can’t find her?” he said. “What if—?” his voice cracked.  
  
The event the two were referring to, of course, was the abduction of the two’s former co-star turned teammate (and close friend) Cameron Diaz. A few days before the trio was due to board the flight for Sochi and compete in the hockey portion of the Olympics, Cameron had gone missing—taken in the middle of the night. The only clues the police had managed to latch onto as having some meaning was muddy dog footprints in the foyer of her home and a second-hand fur coat, smelling of undeserved Grammys, that looked like it had been knocked off in a struggle.  
  
Then, unexpectedly, a day later her cell phone pinged off a random tower in Sochi. It was a stretch, the police had told Mike and Eddie. Just because Cameron’s cell phone was in Sochi did not mean she was. But Mike and Eddie were resolute; they were already going to Sochi, they argued, and if there was the slightest chance they could save Cameron they sure as hell weren’t going to let it pass.  
  
Mike wiped his eyes, and Eddie pretended he didn’t notice the tears staining his cheeks. “We’re going to find her,” Eddie reassured him, not removing his hand. “We’re going to find her, and Team We Don’t Give A Shrek will be back in action, and then we’re going to _win this thing_.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mike said. He looked out the window. "Right."  
  
He hoped he sounded more optimistic than he felt.

* * *

"Robin. Robbie. Roberto. Robert. Robo Cop. Rob. Robinson. Ro-Ro. Robin Anthony Williams!" 

"Actually," Robbie-Rob corrected. "My middle name is McLaurin." 

Billford Cosby shook his balding head. "I...I wasn't aware of that, my friend. Sincerest apologies." Robin smiled warmheartedly at him, forgiveness evident on his gorgeous, god-like face. Bill stooped down to tie up his snow boots and quickly pulled on his coat. "You ready for some good, ol' fashioned sight-seeing?" 

"Totes," came the reply, and the lifelong-friends-turned-snowboarding-partners were off. 

They exited the front doors of Hotel Rwanda with aspirations to see all that there was to see in Sochi. However, their aspirations came to an abrupt halt when they realized that there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do in Russia. 

"Well, this sucks," Rob complained as he used a small Russian child as an armrest. 

"We can't go back to the hotel," began Mr. Cosby. "Since the A/C shut down and it's as hot as Satan's asshole in there. It also doesn't help that it looks like every single entity that has breathed sweet, precious air into their soon to collapse lungs, is shacking it up there. Ya know, this reminds me of that movie I did with my boi, Richie Pryor a few years ago..." 

As Bill began to go on and on about a movie that was certainly filmed more than a few years ago with his boi, Richie Pryor, I gotta admit that I have no idea how it's hot in Russia in the winter. Especially when it was freezing a couple chapters ago. Let’s just blame it on global warming. Bear with me. 

Robin looked down at his map, ignoring the reminiscing of his partner, before looking above him at the street sign reading "Putin Lane". The boy he was leaning on began to weep. "I think there might be a movie theater near here."

Bill immediately snapped out of his reverie. "Do you think they're still playing Bee Movie?!?" Robin's face split into a grin. 

"I don't see why not! Let’s go!" The old-timers sprinted down the street, in hopes of being met with their favorite Oscar-winning film. 

Unbeknownst to them, Robin had dropped his map, leaving it on the bare Russian ground. A light buzzing could be heard in the distance before a hand reached down to retrieve it. It was _not_ Robin's. 

Jerry Seinfeld chuckled. "Wait 'til the fellas get a load of this." 

* * *

"Jesus fucking Christ in a sandwich, Jimmy, what are you doing in there?" Justin Timberlake groaned as he waited outside of the handicapped restroom near the terminal of Deutschland Airport. They were in a bit of a pickle at the moment. For starters, they were forced to take the layover flight to Germany, and  _then_ to Russia, because of fucking Jimmy Fallon and his fucking inability to just  _do_ things when Justin told him to do them. By the time Jimmy had tried to book Team Sexy Back's flight, the tickets had all been sold out. One would think that after getting his ear chewed out by the popstar/actor/entrepreneur/fuckboy, Jimmy would finally take initiative and do something with haste for once, but no. He just  _had_ to stop to powder his nose (whatever that means) in the bathroom that he had locked those who actually  _needed it_ out of it.

"I told you, I'm powdering my--"

"Dick?" Finished Peyton Manning as he walked up to his teammates. He had very recently quit football to do what he truly loved the most: hockey. And by "very recently", I meant twelve minutes ago. The press conference had been very _Space Jam_ -esque. 

"Haha, very funny, Pey," the muffled voice replied from behind the door. A click was heard and the door finally opened revealing a rather downtrodden Jimmy Fallon. "God, that was annoying. Let's get the fuck out of Germany."

"What took you so long? Our plane leaves in six minutes, you assface!" The _Cry Me a River_ singer crooned. Jimmy shoved his phone into his slacks pocket. 

"I was on the phone trying to get someone to take over the Tonight Show. My only option was that Arsenio Hall n0ob, since there was no way in hell I was letting that no-good, name-stealing fuck, Kimmel have his way with my slot."

"Whatever, can we _please_ board the plane, though? I mean, we _already_ could've been on it, but someone had to go ahead and handle his occupational business _the day we leave_!" 

Jimmy bit his lip. "Damn, JT, you sound like my mom when she's telling me I should've become a lawyer." He grabbed both of his pals' moist, white hands. "If we sprint, we'll have enough time to get seats together and not next to some ugly crying baby?" 

Peyton laughed, and broke the grasp, making his way to gain a head start by shoving and tackling as many German travelers as he could on his way to the terminal. Justin's hand was still in Jimmy's. 

"I'm sorry 'bout badgering you all the time, man. I guess I'm just really stressed out with all this Olympic stuff." Jimmy smiled fondly. 

"It's okay, bae. I know you mean well." He gave his BFF (boyfriend forever) a peck on the cheek, and gazed after Peyton. "Should we try to catch up to him?" 

Justin shook his head gayly. "Nah, I'm really feeling a nice stroll right about now." The couple did just that, hopping over those who had fallen during the ex-football player's dash.

* * *

Jennifer Lawrence stood in front of Hotel Rwanda, slowly removing her sunglasses as she took in her surroundings. (I don't know why she was wearing sunglasses during winter in Russia. I am not Jennifer Lawrence, nor the Jennifer Lawrence that is represented in this work of fiction.)

"Wow," she said, smiling as she crammed said sunglasses into the side-pocket on her large handbag. "Russia is like, so cool."

Jennifer briefly considered removing her bags from the trunk of the taxi she had taken, but then decided that the task would be better suited for the taxi driver. Or the doorman. Or the bellhop. Someone who wasn't her. She was Jennifer Lawrence, after all, and carrying her own bags into a hotel wasn't quirky or random XD enough for Jennifer Lawrence.

Wondering vaguely if the hotel offered room service (food was _definitely_ quirky and random XD), Jennifer hoisted her handbag up more securely over her arm and walked briskly towards the front doors. If she ignored the confused calls of the taxi driver and the doorman after her, well, she'd already established that she was too quirky for politeness.

Jennifer was undeniably excited for the 2014 Sochi Olympics, despite what her demeanor might suggest otherwise. She had been training for this moment for weeks, months, _years_ ; in between all the shooting for _The Hunger Games_ trilogy, _American Hustle_ , and the like, she had been hitting the ice rinks relentlessly. She was determined to beat her only real rival, Lupita, at the singles ice dancing this year and bring honor to her god Liam Neeson.

No matter _what_ it took.

* * *

“Al, I swear to Neeson, that is really unnecessary." Katie Couric chastised as she, not for the first time that day, walked in on her coworker Al Roker, stripped completely naked on a yoga mat. It was a part of his new workout regimen, he said. They were gonna need to exercise harder than ever for the Olympics, he said. Doing yoga in the nude opens your pores, he said. 

"Katie, you just don't understand me." He stretched out a long, delicate leg, giving the poor woman standing above him a rather nice, but at the same time revolting view. Al didn't let fact that she was staring go unnoticed. "Don't hate me cause you ain't me," he cried, changing positions. The interviewer scoffed. 

Jay-Z's _Big Pimpin'_ chirped from the flip phone sitting haphazardly on the bed in the rather large hotel room, causing a certain retired talk show host to sprint out of the bathroom in which he was combing his luxurious mane. 

Regis Philbin pushed Katie out of the way, leapt over the still very naked Al, and landed in a heap atop the bed, wringing the outdated device from underneath his cruel and elegant body. He flipped it up with a fling of the wrist, and chimed, "Talk dirty to me." When the voice on the other line responded, be nodded vigorously before gasping and throwing his phone out the nearest window. Even though the window was closed. 

"Al: put on your clothes. Katie: wipe that ugly look off your face. Matt's here! He's finally here!" He jumped off of the bed, nearly crushing Al who remained on the floor. 

Katie was agog. Katie was aghast. "That asswipe finally made it to Sochi? Who would have thought that he would learn to actually get up off of his no-good--"

"No time for griping, you grouchy Ursula," Al said. Still naked, just so you know. "We have to go meet up with Matt!" 

"You really should get dressed, though." 

Al crossed his arms. "I will not let you cover up my delicious body." 

Regis shrugged. "A'ight. Lets head out, you sick, twisted fucks." 

The 3/4 of the world renowned first NBC bobsled team had just reached the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal Matt Lauer, glowing with an impossible Russian winter tan. Still have no idea how this is happening.

"Matthew!" Regis screamed actually quite loudly. 

"You look so gorgeous, how've ya been?" Inquired Al. Who was naked. Still. 

"Where the hell have you been, you reptile," Katie wondered. 

Matt took a breath. "I--" 

"Why the hell is that man naked?" A bespectacled employee asked, utterly horrified. Each member of Team NBC smiled sheepishly at him, although when a naked man, a fossil, whatever the hell Matt Lauer is, and a pissed off Katie Couric smile sheepishly at you, it comes off as very, very scary. 

The man went running down the hall, possibly looking for management, or some bleach to most likely blind himself with. Regis sucked his teeth. "This is like how you always say, Al. People need to stop sippin' that hatorade." 

Al blinked. "I never said that. Literally ever." 

Matt sighed. "Can someone please show me where our goddamn room is?" 

Katie vomited. "I hate you all."

* * *

Rinko Kikuchi sat at a table of the Russian IHOP on Stalin drive, beads of sweat running down her cute face with anxiety. Practice had been rough--R. Kelly had really been hounding her, especially with his new drill called the "Love Slide".

  
"Step. Step. Side-to-side. Round and round. Hit the ground. Separate. Bring it back. Now let me see you do the love slide!" He would chant repeatedly as she conditioned with prowess. However, it had left her extremely exhausted, and even worse, smelling like rotten egg. She had no time to go to her hotel that she had checked into the previous night because of her private engagement with Team Lesbehonest, an engagement that had been on the forefront of her mind during the duration of practice.  
  
Jasika seemed sweet; not sickeningly sweet like some people she knew, but a genuine saccharine attitude that had shown through during their first meeting. Zoe, however, was a completely different story.  
  
She was kind, but immensely intimidating. Considerate, but in a way that said "I care, but at the same time I don't". She was beautiful and frightening, a combination that Rinko wasn't so sure she could stand, despite very much wanting to.  
  
She began to fiddle with the syrup dispensers, accidentally getting her hands covered in the grape and strawberry pancake toppings. She pulled her hands back, quickly reaching for a napkin to wipe the offending goo off as a waitress walked past with an eye of judgment. She held back the urge to stick her tongue out at the old Russian cow, knowing that she had a reputation to maintain.  
  
She checked her watch. It had been a good forty minutes since practice had ended. Why weren't they there already? What if this was all just one, big, cruel joke? What if this was sabotage?  
  
Rinko popped up out of her seat, breaths coming quickly. She tried to calm herself down, telling herself she was overreacting; as R Kelly always told her, she was too much of a goddamn worrier. (Of course, R Kelly also had a tendency to speak only in his song lyrics from time to time and thought the 2005  _Crash_ was a good movie, so she didn’t know if his advice was entirely sound.) They could’ve easily gotten stuck in traffic, Rinko reasoned with herself. Their practice could have gone longer than they told Rinko it would. They could’ve been swamped with paparazzi and—

“Hey, Rinko, sorry we’re late!”

—Or, they be walking through the door at that very moment.

Rinko suffered a brief moment of confusion where she both attempted to quickly sit back down and leap entirely out of the booth at the same time. She was successful in neither endeavor, and simply settled on not moving whatsoever.

“Hi!” she said brightly back, as though she hadn’t been moments away from having a minor panic attack and destroying numerous small jam packets in the process. She smiled at Jasika and Zoe as they entered the small IHOP, and if her eyes lingered a little too long on Zoe’s answering smile, well, no one could prove it. As the two women walked over to join Rinko, she sat back down.

“Our coach kept us  _way_ longer than he said he would,” Jasika said with an eyeroll, slipping into the booth seat across from Rinko. “And  _then_ Zoe got us lost—“

“—only because you forgot to pack the charger to my GPS,” Zoe interjected calmly, and oh no, she was squeezing into Rinko’s side of the booth, _Rinko was going to die from the_   _proximity_.

Jasika rolled her eyes dramatically again. “Everything is always  _my_  fault,” she said, without any real venom in her voice. Her smile was back a second later; Rinko didn't think she was ever going to get used to the seemingly limitless amount of energy the woman had. “Anyway, super sorry for being late!” she continued a second later.

Zoe reached across Rinko to grab a menu, brushing her arm against Rinko’s accidentally, and Rinko absolutely did not blush at the contact whatsoever. Nope.

A comfortable silence fell over the table as the three women all scanned the menus. Rinko was inwardly debating whether to get crepes or the all-you-can-eat-pancakes when the door suddenly swung open again, and two other very pretty goddess-like women walked in.

“Is this the right place?” one of the women asked the other. She spotted their table a second later, and her face broke into a grin. “Yep, nevermind, it is!”

Jasika waved at them violently, and Zoe laughed a little at Rinko’s confused expression. “I hope you don’t mind, but we invited the other luge team to join us,” she explained, smiling that beautiful smile again.

The two women walked over to their table, and the one who had spoken first stuck her hand out to Rinko. “Lucy Liu,” she said as a meaning of introduction. She gestured at the other woman with her other hand. “And my teammate, Nicole Beharie.”

Rinko shook Lucy’s hand eagerly; she had admired Lucy’s acting skills long before the woman had taken up the luge, and then promptly began admiring her for the luge. She shook Nicole’s hand after that, smiling widely at both of them. “I’m Rinko,” she gushed. “It’s such an honor to meet both of you!”

Lucy chose the spot next to Jasika, and Nicole squeezed in next to her a second later. It was a tight fit, but none of them seemed to be in any way uncomfortable.

“You’re the one-woman luger,” Nicole said, looking at Rinko with something akin to awe. “I. Wow.” She turned to Lucy. “Damn, Luce, I wish we brought our poster of her for her to autograph.”

Lucy laughed, and Rinko blushed again. She wasn't used to getting such outright praise.

“Right,” Zoe interrupted, clapping her hands together. “Enough talk.” She handed menus to Lucy and Nicole. “Pancake time.”

As Rinko looked around the table, taking in the bickering duo of Lucy and Nicole (both were trying to convince each other that they had mediocre taste in pancakes) and the incredibly sweet Jasika (who was rearranging the jellies by flavor) and the incredibly intimidatingly beautiful Zoe (who kept catching Rinko’s eye and smiling), she couldn't help but feel completely relaxed since the first time she entered Russia.

She took in a deep breath. Perhaps this was actually going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant believe his middle name is mclaurin


	6. Simon Cowell's Turn-Up Function

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Don Cheadle gets a love interest, the plot of Looney Tunes: Back in Action occurs, Zayn Malik fanart is displayed, Aaron Tveit and George Blagden have car troubles, half the characters sing karaoke, Tim Allen has an unfortunate accident, Leonardo DiCaprio gets way too invested in Jay Gatsby's character, one of the authors wants nothing more than for Chris Evans to make out with Sebastian Stan, Chris Pine may or may not send a drunk text, Rinko Kikuchi falls even more for Zoe Saldana in more ways than one, and the actual plot begins to unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Extra crispy." -Steve Martin, "Looney Tunes: Back in Action"

It had been a week or so since the Olympic athletes had all officially arrived in Russia. Hotel Rwanda was bustling; between its esteemed new guests and the amount of tourists pouring in to Sochi at an ever-increasing rate, it was making more money than it ever had before.

The increase in guests at the hotel, of course, meant an increase in lines for the little café attached, an increase in the amount of time it took to get fresh towels sent up, and (as one Donald Cheadle found out the hard way), an increase in the chance of accidentally running into someone. In the literal sense.

Don was currently sprinting down the hallway towards the elevator, backpack full of skating gear slung over his shoulder. He mentally cursed his faulty alarm clock and his damn teammate for not waking him up; practice was in five minutes, and Coach Mooney promised to rain holy wrath upon his ass the next time he was late.

Needless to say, he was in somewhat of a hurry.

Don was in so much of a hurry, in fact, that he neglected to realize that the elevator doors were opening. The elevator doors he was currently running high-speed towards.

It didn't end well.

The doors slid open just as Don ran through them without looking twice—and straight into a very shocked looking James Franco. James Franco stumbled back both from the impact and surprise, dropping his cup of coffee and binder full of papers.

"Shit, man, I'm sorry," Don said apologetically, bending over to retrieve the spilled coffee and now scattered papers.

"It's alright," James Franco said with a forgiving smile, joining Don on the elevator floor to help him. "I know how you feel, man, trust me."

Don glanced at the binder as he passed it back to James. " _Le Petit Prince_?" he asked curiously.

"New movie I'm doing," James said, shrugging. "It's some French bullshit about a suicidal alien prince and a flower. But, hey, it pays a lot."

Don nodded. He knew the feeling; he'd taken on many roles in his life for the sake of money (most notably being his work in _Hotel Rwanda_ —not to be confused with the hotel, which was coincidentally named after the movie).

"Hey, wait a sec," James said, squinting at Don as he straightened the papers in his arms. "You're that Donald Cheadle guy, aren't you?"

"Don," Don corrected, and James grasped Don's hand and shook it excitedly.

"I'm a huge fan!" James said, grinning widely. "Like, a huge one! Your work in _Hotel Rwanda_ was beautiful, and _Crash_ brought me to tears. It's actually what inspired me to take on my role in _Oz the Great and Powerful_." James was blushing now, and he held onto Don's hand much longer than a normal handshake required.

Don couldn't help but be flustered. "That's really, uh. Sweet," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I have to go to skating practice," he continued awkwardly, motioning to the elevator doors.

James jumped aside, fumbling with his binder again. "Right. I forgot that you're competing," he said, smiling nervously. "Good luck!" He started to walk down the hall, leaving Don to carry on his way.

Don was about to step into the elevator when something held him back. "Wait," he called after James Franco, and James stopped abruptly and turned to face Don eagerly.

"Yeah?"

Don rubbed his neck again. "If you, uh, wanted to meet for coffee or something sometime. That'd be cool."

James's smile was blinding this time. "I'd love that," he said. "We can talk about your character's motives in _Crash_ , too—I'd love some pointers," he added after a second. Don smiled back. James looked like he was about to walk away when he hesitated. "Hey," he added, slipping into more of a nervous facade. "You know that party at Simon Cowell's place tonight?"

As customary for every time the Olympics came around, _X-Factor_ star Simon Cowell would purchase a large mansion in whatever city was hosting the games and invite all the competing athletes and whatever other celebrities happened to be in the area over for a massive party. Don had heard they were legendary, and when he and Steve got their invites, he could barely contain his excitement.

"Yeah," Don said. "You going to that too?"

James nodded, going a little pink again. "Maybe, I'll, um, see you tonight."

"I can't wait," Don said, and this time his smile was shy.

Fifteen minutes later, Don walked onto the skating rink, still smiling. He didn't even care that he was late.

* * *

The pulsating strobe lights and loud, blaring music coming from one Simon Phillip Cowell's winter home (or, if we're being technical, mansion) in Sochi left nothing to the imagination as to what was currently going on inside.

Tom Hanks looked at the looming structure above him with a mixture of minor apprehension and awe on his face. He wasn't sure what to expect; he had heard many, many stories of Simon's infamous Olympic turn-up functions (some dating back to the 80's, even) from the older, retired athletes that used to go to them. And they had all sounded completely different. Tom's favorite story was the one about the pool-sized chocolate fondue fountain—Coach Julie Andrews had told them about that one when she slipped into an unusually maudlin nostalgic mood (that might've had something to do with Bill managing to ply her with a few shots of whiskey).

Bill clapped him on the shoulder, causing the bottles in the six-pack of beer Tom was carrying to clink against each other with the movement. "Inside that house," he said solemnly, eyes fixed on the front door, "history is being made." His eyes almost glistened. "And we're about to become a part of it."

There was a loud crashing noise from inside the mansion that could be heard over the music. Someone screamed.

The apprehensive side of Tom was definitely winning now.

* * *

Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool and shooting some b-ball near Simon's big ass pool was the world renowned Team We Genie. They had snuck into the Turn-Up Function extra early to install a basketball hoop with Mr. Cowell none the wiser. They were practically geniuses.

"We are practically geniuses," shouted Lebron James as he performed another fabulous layup. Michael Jordan nodded in agreement, stealing the ball from his teammate and dribbling closer to the edge of the pool.

Brendan Fraser leapt from his unnecessary crouch on the ground. "Whoa, MJ! Watch your step, fella! Wouldn't want out star linebacker getting hurt before our first game!"

Michael stopped dribbling and closed his eyes of most heavenly chocolate. "How many times do I have to tell this lactating freak of nature that there is no such thing as a linebacker in basketball?!" He looked at Shaquille O'Neal, who, if you weren't aware, is a fucking genie, for some help, but only received a goddamn shoulder shimmy. The _Space Jam_ star inhaled. "Let's do some drills."

"What the HOTDOG?!?!?! We can't do drills now! It's like 2 am!" Brendan whined before MJ hurled the basketball at his smooth face. He fell, knocking over a potted plant which shattered all over the pavement.

"Look at what you did!" The hall-of-famer yelled, running over to clean up the ceramics and dirt before the host could find out.

Shaq floated towards the stuntman-turned-actor-turned-monkey-turned-basketball player. "You done goofed, son."

"Um, did no one just see that handsome fuck throw a ball? At my face?" Dr. O'Neal held out a hand for Brendan to accept but since he's a genie it didn't work. You know, that kinda makes me wonder how he's able to hold a basketball. Is there any logic to this fic.

Lebron interrupted my plot hole discovery with a "Men, y'all gotta take a look at this..."

"We ain't men, we--"

"Hoe! Shut the! Fuck! Up!" Lebron pointed at the flat screen TV hung on the balcony above the pool. "Who the hell is _that_."

The screen displayed the terrified image of Alan Rickman as he attempted to fight off what sounded like a rabid dog and several henchmen dressed in rainbow colored garb. Alan kicked one of twinks in the face. He faced the camera and grinned. "It worked! Help! Whoever's there, I need your help!"

"Dad?!" Brendan pulled himself up and began hopping in front of the television. "Pop! It's me! Your _son_!"

"My child! You're alive?! You've made it to the USSR in one piece?"

The egg shook his head in every which way. "Yeah, dad! Are y--are you--"

"Maybe you should stop jumping," Captain Jordan suggested with a roll of the eyes. The token white ceased his hopping.

"Are you okay?" Tears welled up in his large cerulean orbs as he watched his father be punched by Head Gay Tyler Oakley. He cackled evilly after trading spaces with actual shithole Perez Hilton, who began to ram a baseball bat into Alan's head. The actor stayed resilient, however, and shoved both homosexuals back into the wall.

"I'm fine, son. I just--" John Green (who is not gay) approached him from the side. The Rick-man headbutted him. "--Need you to come to...actually I have no idea where I am. But, I smell communism in the air. I might be near you." Tyler and Perez rose behind him, causing Alan to blanch. "Son, I don't have much time. Just remember the Homosexual Diamond! You must remember it! Do it for your old man!" Tyler bared his fangs and the screen cut to black.

A muttering of "what the hotdog" could be heard from behind Brendan as sobs wrecked through his body. "Dad! I'm coming to save you!"

"Uh, no you're not, lmao. We have practice tomorrow morning." The headband wearing baller stated.

Brendan wiped his beautiful tears and sniffed. "Fuck you. And fuck the ketchup kids." He ran back into the mansion, leaving the rest of Team We Genie in a confused daze in the crisp Russian night.

Shaq frowned. "What are we gonna do without a token white?"

Michael Jordan raised a finger. "There's a guy I know...he managed to get me out of a tough....................................................................................................jam...a while back."

"Alrighty," Lebron bent down to pick up the basketball that had some of Brendan Fraser's blood on it. "Lets find your guy! Who is he, btw?"

Michael Jordan smirked. "His name...is Bugs."

* * *

"And this," Simon began, waving a hand towards what was possibly the [most breathtaking piece of art that had ever hung on anyone's wall ever](http://media.tumblr.com/66e20a516df80a208773be7e81f86fdf/tumblr_inline_mu9xfpJZ3h1rx42d6.jpg)—as usual, he was giving his guests a tour of his private art collection. "Is the piece de resistance. The chef d'oeuvre. The light of my little eye." He took a deep breath. "Bold and Brash." He ripped the velvet curtain off of the wall to reveal a black and white image of one such Zayn Malik of One Direction. Damn, was it gorgeous. Its eyes spoke of a deep sadness and painful loneliness; its disproportionate nose and mouth symbolized the destruction of societal beauty standards; its elongated chin...

"How... Exquisite !" Janet Jackson, Zayn's ex-girlfriend exclaimed. She began to weep, patting her mascara-smudged cheeks with a handkerchief. "I miss him so..."

"Right," Simon said, coughing awkwardly before pointing at the next painting. "This is the Mona Louis. Bask in it."

* * *

Aaron and George were lost for the third time that week in Sochi.

"We're lost for the third time this week," George pointed out to Aaron. "First the airport, then on the way to the hotel, and now this. Are you sure that thing even works?" He prodded at the GPS on the dashboard, and Aaron swatted his hand away.

"It worked fine when I bought it two weeks ago," Aaron complained. "Maybe it's just Russia. Communist wavelengths blocking the signal. Or something. I don't know, man."

(Communism, as a matter of fact, does not actually have the ability to interfere with Global Positioning Systems. Probably. Where's Joseph McCarthy when you need him.)

George settled back into his seat, looking out the window mournfully. They had been driving around for what felt like hours in an attempt to find Simon Cowell's winter home and were not having much luck—and they had already missed a good portion of the turn-up function. "We should just head back to the hotel," George sighed. "'S probably almost over anyway. Not much point."

"If I knew _how_ to get back to the hotel," Aaron said, making a right turn onto yet another empty road, "I'd agree with you. But—"

Whatever he was going to say was lost as the car suddenly came to an abrupt stop; if the blinking "E" on the gas gauge was any indication, they were out of gas.

"Shit," Aaron groaned, hitting the steering wheel in frustration.

"Looks like we're walking then," George said, inappropriately cheerful, as he opened the car door.

At least, they would've had to walk if it wasn't for the sudden flash of headlights of another car on the otherwise deserted Russian road. Aaron thanked God—or in this case, Liam Neeson—for their luck.

He thanked Liam Neeson further as the car (a black Lamborghini) pulled to a stop next to them, driver's side window rolled down. "Y'all need a ride?" the driver asked, flashing them a smile. "'Cause if you do, you're about to get lucky." There was something incredibly familiar about the man, but Aaron couldn't quite place his finger on it.

"Is that a Mountie?" George whispered to Aaron.

"No," Aaron whispered back, and that's when it hit him. "That's our competition."

Pharrell adjusted his large hat, stroking its brim in an almost sensual manner—he appeared to have not heard the two's exchange. He continued to smile at them. "Just gonna stand there and admire it, or are you gonna get in?" he asked.

"The hat?" George said. Aaron elbowed him.

"The car," Pharrell said, chuckling warmly. He patted the side of the car. "I know she's beautiful, just got a paint job for the Olympics too. A new black shade." He looked at them again over the rim of his pair of Barack Obama Line Patented Swaglases™ (that he was wearing even though it was the middle of the night). "Hey, speaking of the Olympics, aren't you—?"

Aaron nodded. "Tveit and Blagden, competing against you under Neeson," he smiled back. "Still want to give us a ride?"

The doors of the Lamborghini swung open seemingly on their own accord. "I'd be happy to," Pharrell said, "as long as you don't mind if I play my own CDs."

It was better than walking, at any rate.

* * *

Most pivotal moments in history start out the same way; completely and utterly unplanned, and usually with the aid of some form of alcohol. Most historians will tell you this is how the American revolution was planned. And also how the Wright brothers invented the airplane. And probably how the universe was created. (Then again, any historians who have proposed said theories tended to drop out of their career in under a year and form heavy metal bands shortly after, so their credibility cannot be truly lauded.)

The current going-ons inside Simon Cowell's mansion also happened to follow this pattern.

They had found the karaoke machine in a presumably unused storage closet in Simon's basement when an extraordinarily drunk party-goer had been trying to find a bathroom to throw up in. Five minutes after its discovery, it was being hooked up in the speakers that had previously been used by disc-jockey LL "Call me LL Cool DJ" Cool J. Ten minutes after, a makeshift stage was created out of a bar countertop, a microphone propped up onto a coat hanger that Simon Cowell didn't actually recall owning, and an actual spotlight dug out of a box in the garage labelled "Stuff I Stole Off the _American Idol_ Set".

Justin Timberlake was the first to volunteer his golden, mellifluous voice for the cause of public entertainment (and ridicule). After a quick duet of his own "Suit and Tie" with Jimmy Fallon that resulted in Peyton Manning throwing pretzels at them, Bill Murray took the stage for a mournful cover of "Careless Whisper" that brought Tom Hanks to tears.

Simon Cowell, after returning from his art tour, had even started calling out the results, joined quickly by former _American Idol_ costar Randy Jackson; Justin had received a double thumbs up each from the pair, and Bill almost identical disdainful looks.

It was only when Pitbull—whom no one actually remembered inviting—took the stage with his cover of a Jason Derulo song (covertly replacing the customary "Jason Derulo" intro with his own "Mr. Worldwide") that Randy politely excused himself.

"Need some air, dawg," he explained to Simon, sliding his custom pair of Barack Obama Line Swaglasses™ back onto his head. Simon nodded, knocking back his shot glass of an unidentifiable alcohol as Pitbull continued to sing.

Randy grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing waiter's tray, downing it quickly as he made his way to the stairway. He thanked his lucky stars Simon had decided to install a rooftop deck despite the fact that, as previously stated, it was indeed a winter home and one does not typically sunbathe during the Russian winter. The walk to the roof was not long, and Randy only had to dodge a shirtless Chris Hemsworth and a vaguely drunk Jennifer Lawrence on his way up there.

The night was cold (which was to be expected) and it was snowing again. Randy drew his designer velvet coat a little tighter around himself, suddenly wishing he had taken up Simon's offer for a cigarette earlier. It was peaceful save for the distant sounds of the party below, though, and while Randy Jackson was no stranger to wild parties—having thrown quite a few himself—the quiet was a nice interlude.

It was, at least, up until he noticed the figure stumbling around the edge of the roof in front of him.

Randy nearly dropped his empty champagne glass in shock, horror flashing across his brain. "Hey, dawg!" he called; judging from the person's unsteady gait and quiet muttering, they were quite drunk and should definitely _not_ be that close to the edge.

They didn't look up. "Hey!" Randy called again, a little louder, starting to jog a little. "Be caref—!"

The person looked up, startled, and Randy Jackson was able to register the figure being that of Tim Allen in a Santa Claus costume—just as Tim slipped on a patch of ice and toppled off the roof, arms cartwheeling fruitlessly as he attempted to regain his balance.

This time, Randy did drop the glass.

"Shit," he whispered.

* * *

"Could these tunes be any more lame?!" Antonio Banderas complained to the air as yet another Pitbull song blasted through the speakers. LL Cool DJ was truly fucking up.

Eddie jumped off of the table that he had been preparing to serenade the room on. "You're just grumpy because you just got to Sochi. Sorry about your private jet, by the way." He said, not at all sorry. _If the asshole had just flown with us, but no. He had to be Mr. Lone Wolf in Boots, didn't he._

"Edward, the name is Puss in Boots," Antonio informed nonchalantly, astounding the other man. "We've only been in three God forsaken movies together."

"Since the fuck when can you read minds?!"

"My companion, I've been reading minds since 1901. And, before you ask, yes, I was alive in 1901. It's a very long story."

Eddie stared off into the function, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, and grabbing a martini off of the tray of a passing waiter. He gulped the whole thing down before jumping back onto the table. "Hey! DJ! Does 'LL' stand for 'Loves Lame'? Because this song is sooooo lame!"

Sir Cool J ripped off his headphones. "Fuck you, Murphy. Better watch out, or I'll make your life a living Haunted Mansion 2!"

Eddie laughed. "You and what army, asshat?!" Before an altercation could arise, the song changed to one so inspiring it almost brought a tear to Eddie's eye. It even managed to resurrect Mike Meyers from the dead (read: the bathroom in which he was buying weed off of Michael Cera).

It was "Living La Vida Loca".

"Oh hot droove, this is my groove!" Eddie screeched at such high decibels that Bo Obama, who was too cool to attend such a function, barked in response.

Eddie helped Antonio hoist himself up onto the table, causing it to creak worryingly, but this was ignored when Mike threw himself onto the surface to join his pals.

Once the chorus was on, half the function was surrounding the co-stars as they sang with all the passion in their overwhelmingly large hearts.

" _Upside, inside out she's livin' la vida loca_!" Mike screamed.

"She'll push and pull you down, livin' la vida loca," Eddie crooned harmoniously.

"Her lips are devil red and her skin's the color mocha," Antonio sung while accepting flowers from adoring females in the room.

"She will wear you out livin la vida loca. Come on! Livin' la vida loca. Come on! She's livin' la vida loca!" The whole room was singing at this point, melodies intertwining as voices rose up to the ceiling. It was a truly amazing sight. LL Cool J couldn't even be mad anymore. He moistened his lips in glory.

The roof was certainly raised.

* * *

Don had been sitting at the small bar for the past half hour or so, knocking back shots more because of the combination of his boredom and Steve Harvey egging him on than any real desire to do so. Coach Mooney hadn't been wrong when he called Cowell's turn-up functions legendary; he also hadn't been wrong when he said it was damn near impossible to find people in the crowd so he better stick to people like thighs to a plastic chair in summer.

And Don, who was indeed attempting to find someone in the crowd, learned yet another lesson the hard way through firsthand experience.

"Chin up," Steve told him, sliding another shot down the counter towards him and looking entirely too cheerful. "You'll find your boy Franco eventually." Like most of the partygoers, he, too, had to shout to be heard over the blaring music (which was now a dubstep remix of "Benjamin Calypso" from _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_.)

"Did someone say Franco?" In the blink of an eye, James Franco was suddenly leaning on the bar next to Don, martini glass in hand and usual squinty-eyed smug smile on his face. Don lit up, nearly knocking over his own glass as he jumped to his feet in excitement.

"Hey, James," he said in a rush, ignoring the over-exaggerated way Steve was rolling his eyes at him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," James said apologetically. "Had to meet with a few friends."

"It's fine, I assumed it was something like that."

Actually, Don had spent over an hour agonizing to Steve that James clearly wasn't going to show up and they may as well leave because there was no point of staying there any longer. Steve was about to point that out when James yanked out the stool next to the one Don had previously vacated, waving a hand in the bartender's direction to get his attention. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked Don with his smug expression still intact.

"It's a goddamn open bar," Steve grumbled into his mug— _coffee_ mug, because Coach Mooney quit on them last minute for a fuckin' free trip to the hotel spa and made Steve swear up and down that he would be the designated driver, like they were college students or some similar bullshit. God knows why Coach wouldn't just let them call a taxi; the bastard was probably laughing at Steve's pain over a shiatsu massage right now.

Don and James both pretended not to hear him.

* * *

Tobey Maguire climbed up the spiral staircase with a glass of an unidentifiable drink in his clammy hand, lines of worry etched onto his forehead. Once he reached the top, he strolled down the hallway, the sounds of love making and illegal transactions pulsating through the closed doors. He ignored them, however, for he was looking for one thing and one thing only: Leo.

The man had just been _so distant_ after the announcement of the Olympic Games. Tobey had no idea why; in their several years of friendship, he had never known Leonardo DiCaprio to be anything but open. But, now...well, he had only said two words at dinner before the two had left for the Turn-Up Function. One of them had been "thanks" when he received his food, and the other had been "sorry" when he accidentally knocked over the salt shaker. They were staying at the abode of Tobey's cousin, Lizzie McGuire (the slightly different spelling of their names had been a crude error on the part of the hospital young Elizabeth was born at), so they would have front row seats to the games. Incidentally, her house was right across the street from Simon's, so Tobey and Leo spent the short walk over in uncomfortable silence. The Tobester needed to speak with his friend, and desperately.

Leo was standing in front of a large window at the end of the hall. His hand was pressed against the glass as if it was trying to break across the barrier. Tobey could hear incoherent muttering from the stiff man. He cleared his throat.

Leo was lifted from his stupor and spun around. "Oh! Tobey, it's nice to see you here. How's the function?" The absolutely gorgeous man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes looked full of despair.

"Uh, it's getting pretty wild down there. I'm pretty sure someone died, but that's not why I'm up here." He took a deep breath. He finally had the chance to say what's been on his mind for at least half a year now. "Leo, you've been acting...strange lately. It's like you're there, but you're not, I don't know, _there_. As your best friend, or at least the only best friend who feels like dealing with this, I think we need to get right down to the nitty gritty as to why you're acting this way. I care about you." He looked down at his polished shoes. "More than you know."

He looked back up to see Leo facing the window again, hand reaching out towards something that was outside. Tobias scoffed and growled, "Seriously?! I was just about to pour my heart out to you, and you just ignore me?"

Leo flinched. "I'm sorry, were you saying something? I was ignoring you."

Tobey yanked Leo from in front of the window and searched for whatever the hell it was that was more important than his angst. "What are you even looking at?! You're going nuts, man!"

"I can't tell you, old sport. It's too--"

"Oh hell," Tobey began. "To the fucking no. I should've known. You're a method actor trapped in your old role, of course! Don't worry, buddy. This happens to the best of us. I'll just take you back to Lizzie's and we can--"

He was cut off by a gasp. "No! I can't...I can't see her. Not in this state. Especially with that disgusting fiancé of her's there, too."

"What's wrong with Chris?" Chris Rock was the man in question. After voicing for the last _Madagascar_ film, he had somehow managed to woo the fair Lizzie with his charming good looks, quick wit, and Afro circus. They started dating shortly after, and now were engaged to have a wedding in Paris, using all the leftovers from the Kimye wedding. They were madly in love, and it reviled Leonardo.

"Nothing except the fact that he has Lizzie's all-consuming adoration, and I don't! How unfair the world is."

"Dude, you're being wangstier than your character was in _Romeo + Juliet_. And, that's saying so, so, so much. Why didn't you tell me you had a thing for my cousin? I could've set you guys up..." He most definitely would have if it would prevent his feelings for the amazing man from growing. He hated how lovesick he could get.

"No, you see, old sport, I need to do things on my own. Can't get too many people caught up in a big mess, ya know?"

"Of course I know, you dimwit, that's basically what happened in _The Great Gatsby_. Speaking of which, please stop saying 'old sport' and let me take you to a soft bed." Shit. He hadn't meant for it to come out like that. "Or couch. Um! I don't--just let me take you to Liz's!" He grabbed hold of the other man and began to forcibly remove him from the premises. Leo complained loudly the whole way, yelling about the red, flashing light that signified the incredibly expensive security system that Chris had installed into Lizzie's house. Tobey groaned. It was going to be an awfully long night.

* * *

Chris Evans had never been one for big parties. The combination of crowded rooms full of strangers and blaring music did not bode well with his own social anxiety. In fact, the only relatively large parties he had ever really attended were the wrap-up ones for the few Marvel Studios films he's been in.

None of them, however, were anywhere near as packed as Simon Cowell's.

(It had all been Coach Ruffalo's fault, anyway. Something about promoting public image and making nice with the opposition. If the way Ruffalo was currently chumming up to RDJ in the corner by the snack bar was any indication, he was at least following his own advice.)

Chris flinched noticeably when a voice to his right suddenly asked him "You okay?"

It was Sebastian; Chris had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed his friend sidle up to him in his hiding spot in the corner. Sebastian smiled apologetically a second later. "Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to startle you."

Chris shook his head. "Nah, it's fine. Just not a fan of parties." Then, after a second, he added, "You don't have to stand with me, you know, I'm not very interesting."

Sebastian shrugged, mouth curling into a small smile. "I beg to differ." He took a sip of his beer, and Chris found himself momentarily distracted by Sebastian's lips for what was not the first time during their acquaintance. Or during that week. Or during that night.

"Oh," he said, averting his gaze to look fixedly up at the ceiling and trying to act like anything but a guy who had spent the last few minutes staring creepily at his friend's mouth. He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

Sebastian shifted a little closer to him on the wall, taking another sip of his beer. Chris was beginning to feel a little uncomfortably hot under his collar. He was about to suggest they go somewhere quieter or more private—promptly turning a nice shade of pink at his own thoughts because no, he didn't mean like that, _God_ —when Sebastian grabbed his arm not ungently, grinning widely.

"Let's dance," he suggested, gesturing towards the dance floor (that was less of an official dance floor and more of a small patch of light-up linoleum flooring with an excessive amount of strobe lights).

Chris couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped him. "You dance?" he said, forgetting all of his previous anxiety even if only for a moment.

Sebastian was already tugging Chris towards the flashing tiles. "—Ish." He shrugged again. "I danced with Mackie for a while earlier before he ditched me for Scarlett. I didn't step on his feet _too_ much, if that's what you mean." Chris rolled his eyes, but after a few more insistent pulls on the cuff of his shirt he gave in and allowed Sebastian to drag him to the middle of the room.

"I can't dance either, just so you know," Chris said warningly, and Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

"'Either'?" He scoffed. "Again, there you go with the insinuating that I can't dance."

They were standing in the center of the floor now, and were going to have to move or risk being run into by other dancers. In a burst of bravery that was probably more thanks to the small amount of alcohol in his system and their close proximity than actual courage, Chris placed his hands on either side of Sebastian's waist and pulled them closer than he originally intended to together.

Sebastian blinked in surprise, and even with the bad, flashing lighting Chris could tell he looked a little pink—but he regained his composure quickly. "Forward," Sebastian teased. "Here I was expecting you to save room for Jesus, or whatever."

The tables had turned, and Chris grinned. "Ye of little faith," he said, ignoring the embarrassing way his heartbeat increased when Sebastian draped his own arms across Chris's shoulders. They swayed to the music for a few moments; it was some dubstep number Chris didn't recognize, but it was a hell of a lot better than the Pitbull kick the DJ had been on earlier.

"You don't have to keep your hands up so high, you know," Sebastian laughed when the first song faded into a new (almost identical) one, leaning in close to speak so Chris could hear him over the music. "We're not at prom." He covered one of Chris's hands with his own, moving it down until he was cradling Sebastian's hip, and Chris could definitely get used to that.

If Chris subtly shifted a little closer to Sebastian, it was definitely not his fault. "I guess you _can_ dance," he said, tightening his grip a bit on Sebastian's hips and enjoying the way Sebastian inhaled sharply in response. "If you call this dancing, I mean."

Sebastian raised his eyebrows, smirk back in place. "I know a lot more steps," he said lowly, breath tickling the shell of Chris's ear. They weren't swaying anymore, and Sebastian's face was incredibly close to his and he was looking up at him with an almost daring expression. Chris could kiss him, probably, and that idea was sounding better and better every few seconds.

Chris started to lean in—

—just as his phone suddenly went off, playing Jason Derulo's "Talk Dirty" embarrassingly loudly and causing the two to jump apart as though shocked.

"Mackie changed my ringtone again. I'm going to _kill_ him," Chris said as he fumbled with his cellphone, hurriedly attempting to cancel the call and looking anywhere but at Sebastian.

"I'm sure he did," Sebastian said, cracking a smile. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Um, I'm going to go get a drink. You want anything?" He was on his way to the bar before Chris had even finished shaking his head no.

Chris sighed, shoving his phone back in his pocket. The ride home would be sufficiently awkward.

* * *

It had been 40 minutes since Randy Jackson told him he would be back in 10 minutes and hadn't actually returned, and Simon Cowell was starting to get a little worried. Only a little, mind you. As long as the guy wasn't having a tryst in one of his various closets, spilling beer on the carpet, or defacing the Hall of One Direction, he couldn't care less as to what he was doing.

He did flag down Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and ask him to check the rooftop terrace for Randy, though.

"Make sure he hasn't fallen off the roof or something," he added with a chuckle.

Simon wasn't entirely wrong, as The Rock found out when he emerged on the snow-covered roof minutes later.

Randy was crouched over the edge of the roof, looking down at something, and when Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson called his name Randy snapped up with a guilty look on his face.

"You okay, man?" Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson asked, frowning. "You look like you just—"

"I just killed Tim Allen, dawg," Randy said shakily, interrupting Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.

"Wha—?"

Randy raised a shaking finger, pointing to the ground several stories below. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson walked to his side and cautiously peered over the edge.

Tim Allen's body laid atop the snow, red Santa Claus suit a shocking contrast to the white. His eyes were closed and his neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson didn't have to be a doctor to tell that the man was dead.

He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe Tim Allen was fucking dead.

"I didn't mean to," Randy said, voice wavering with unshed tears. "Fuck, dawg, he just—he _fell_ , you gotta believe—"

He trailed off as, miraculously, before Randy and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's very eyes, Tim's body disappeared in a matter of seconds as though it was merely cotton candy in the rain, or a similarly pretentious metaphor. The only thing that remained was the Santa Claus suit.

Something clicked in Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's mind, and The Rock placed a gentle hand on Randy's shoulder. "Randy," he said calmly, "I don't know how to break it to you, but..." He took a deep breath. "I think you just accidentally became Santa Claus."

* * *

"It's crazy," James said, propping his head up on his chin and grinning at Don. They had been sitting at the bar for about 20 minutes now, and Steve was feeling more than a little ill at how much the two were flirting. "It's like we finish each other's s—"

"—atanic rituals!" Don exclaimed happily.

James blinked. "Um?"

"...Sonic/Mario fanfiction?" Don tried again.

"I—"

"Stephen Spielburg film analyzations?"

James reached across the little space between them and covered Don's hands with his own before the man could continue. "It doesn't matter," he said, smiling a little too cheerfully, "We're totally in sync."

Steve downed the rest of his coffee in one go. He probably would've vomited if he didn't.

* * *

Chris Pine was drunk.

"'M not drunk," he insisted to Zoe Saldana, drink sloshing over the sides of his cups and onto the floor. Zoe eyed the reddish mess warily; Cowell was gonna have a bitch fit at them for dirtying up his hardwood if she didn't clean it up before it stained.

"Yes you are," she said firmly, loud enough to make herself heard over the music. She tried to pry the drink out of Chris's hands. "And as the designated driver for your drunk ass, I'm intervening."

Chris pouted when she successfully got the cup but didn't speak again, swaying dangerously on the spot. Zoe sighed, taking him by the arm and gently pushing him into a nearby chair. "Sit here for five minutes," she pleaded. "I'm going to get some napkins for the spill and find Karl, Simon, Anton, and John so we can leave." She patted the top of his head. "Don't try to flirt with anyone. Or send Karl nudes again."

Taking Chris's still-present pout as an agreement, Zoe pushed her way through the crowd of people in Cowell's mansion to find the rest of their group and left the man alone in his corner.

Chris blinked dazedly. "'M so not drunk," he slurred loudly to no one in particular. He got a weird look from a passing Lucy Liu. "So not," he repeated, as though the air had both sentience and the desire to know what Chris Pine's blood alcohol concentration was.

(For the record, it had neither.)

He pulled his phone out of his pocket with intentions to check the time before noticing he had a missed text from Zachary Quinto. Chris's face split into a grin; he hadn't seen Zachary properly in months, and the man wasn't due to arrive in Sochi for another day or so.

Zachary was a good friend, Chris mused. And cute. Very, very cute. It was suddenly crucial to Chris's continued (and at the moment, majorly intoxicated) existence that Zachary know that Chris thought he was cute right this instant. And maybe that he wanted to kiss him, too. He fumbled with his passcode for a few moments before finally unlocking his phone, hit "new message", and sent the eloquent text _u cute :-* :-* :-*_ to Zachary.

Seconds later, he was asleep.

* * *

Rinko Kikuchi had never been able to hold her alcohol very well. It was something that her mentor R Kelly discovered the last (and only) time he took her out for a post-practice drink and had enjoyed making fun of ever since. She couldn't help it, and she was pretty sure it had something to do with body chemistry. Or whatever. She had had one too many drinks with Lucy and Nicole to think about shit like biology right now.

BAC and the author's limited knowledge of it aside right now, the point was that Rinko was pretty much the human personification of the 2008 hit "Blame It" right now and had lost Lucy and Nicole—her rides home—in the crowd some time ago.

Rinko's inner R Kelly was having a very long laugh at her right now.

In the haze that was currently her mind, the sudden thought of R Kelly was like an angelic R&B chorus descending from heaven. She would call R Kelly, she reasoned. He would pick her up, drive her home, and help her deal with the inevitable hangover she would have the next morning before the Opening Ceremony. And the equally inevitable relentless teasing.

Rinko was just about to pull out her phone when, to her horror, her already precariously high heels made contact with a puddle of something slippery on the floor—costing her her traction, her balance, and (to a smaller degree) her dignity.

Just as she was bracing herself to hit the ground and silently praying that her dress wasn't a casualty someone reached out and caught her in an almost dip-like fashion.

"Oh," said Zoe Saldana, face brightening as she realized just exactly who she had saved from sprawling across the hardwood. "Hi, Rinko."

Rinko blinked up at Zoe, thinking absently that the lighting behind the woman's head made her look vaguely like an angel. That is, if angels were typically lit by multicolored strobe lights. Rinko wasn't feeling particularly poetic with her metaphors right now. "Hi," she said, and to her equal parts embarrassment and secret pleasure Zoe was pulling her back up to her feet.

Zoe laughed. "How many times have you fallen into me now?"

"More than I should've." Rinko made a show of smoothing out the skirt of her dress and tried to pretend that she wasn't _too_ staggeringly drunk. Which she actually was. This was a fact that Zoe clearly caught onto pretty fast, as her smile morphed into a look of concern in a heartbeat when Rinko had to grip her arm to stay upright. "You alright?" Zoe asked.

Rinko felt sick; R Kelly was going to throw a bitch fit if she even entertained the idea of possibly throwing up in his car, so a ride from him was looking less likely. She was just considering asking Zoe to call a taxi for her when the woman was slipping an arm around her shoulders and hoisting her up a little.

"Hey, look," Zoe said kindly. "I just need to get Jas and a few other of my idiot friends and then I'll drive you home, okay?"

Rinko nodded, pressing her face into Zoe's shoulder and vehemently mentally denying any suggestions that she was blushing. (Not that anyone thought she was; given that Simon Cowell's winter home had taken on the appearance and atmosphere of a crowded nightclub for the night, the odds that anyone would notice in the dark were extraordinarily slim. It was just the principle of the thing.)

"Thanks," she said, slipping almost instantaneously into not unpleasant unconsciousness.

(Meanwhile, Zoe pondered briefly how she had managed to get stuck with a car full of sleeping drunks.)

* * *

Nicole and Lucy, previously stated as MIA, were off having a threesome with Lupita in one of the many spare bedrooms. This is not to advance the plot at all—just think of what a great trio that is.

* * *

Somewhere, in a small, dark room, a TV showing the events transpiring inside the function shut off. Thin, white knuckles cracked, as the owner of said knuckles stood up from out of his custom made rocking chair. A dog wearing a collar with the name "Ryan Lewis" written in cursive on it began to bark.

It had been tough installing exactly 420 cameras into Simon's mansion. Though the owner was almost never there, there were guards scaling the estate 24-7. Or, make that 24-6.

Simon wasn't an evil man. He gave his guards a day off on Sundays. One lazy Sunday morning was when the man made his move.

It had been a quick affair, asides from the looming choice of just _where_ to place each camera. He based his locations on the level of gayness that would occur in that area. The bathroom: of course. Bedrooms: ahoy! The roof: sure. Simon's not-so-secret wine cellar: maybe, if he could score himself some fine white wine.

After that, all the man had to do was wait for the big night. It had come in all its glory, and he was quite delighted in watching it all from the comfort of his evil lair. There was a knock at his door.

"Come in," he rasped, and entered John Green.

"He's unconscious, sir. Is there anything else you want us to do?"

The man considered it. "Nah, you've done your work for the day. Go home, now."

The lame nodded. "Alright, sir. Have a good night." The man never replied. Instead he padded over to a cabinet, blindly shuffled several papers around, before taking out a heavily used notebook covered in stickers. He held it to his chest.

"Hm," said Macklemore. "Time to marry some gays."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont even know what the he Ll we're doing anymore  
> but hey, follow us on tumblr at buckgaybarnes and barackandrollobama  
> and b/c we're lame we made an official twitter for this piece of trash rpf so u can get updates on progress or whatever (@iceicebabyrpf)


	7. Are We There Yet: The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which introductions to a very important group are made, Ludacris punches a hole through Terrence Howard's van's roof, Bill Clinton goes tanning, Zachary Quinto and Chris Pine are totally not boyfriends, and Barack and the White House Boys meet the Queen's number one h8ers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "That depends on what your definition of 'is' is." -Bill Clinton

_**48 Hours Before Simon's Turn-Up Function** _

It was 1 in the morning on a Saturday and Zachary Quinto's life was falling apart.

Okay, so not really. But he was in the middle of having pretty decent sex with a guy he met at a bar an hour beforehand when his phone went off, electronically bastardized version of a Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony effectively putting a damper on the mood.

"One sec," Zachary told the guy (he thinks his name was John. Or Paul. It was the same name of one of the Beatles, anyway. Probably.), rolling off of him and reaching for his cell phone on the night stand.

The guy (George?) looked at him incredulously. Zach shrugged. When duty calls, and all that bullshit. Then audibly groaned when he saw the caller ID. Jesus, what was it now?

"Whatever it is, I'm busy," Zach said automatically when he answered, not even bothering with hellos.

"Zach," the excited voice of Terrence Howard exclaimed over the phone, "We have a new lead on the whereabouts of Macklemore." Zach sat up a little straighter; okay, so maybe he wasn't too busy for this. "It's Sochi," Terrence continued. "Pack your bags, Quinto, we're picking you up in an hour."

He hung up. Zach put the phone down. "Hey, look, man, it's been fun," he said, sitting up fully in bed and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "But I've apparently got a plane to Sochi to catch, soooo..."

"You're kicking me out?" the guy said, mouth slightly agape.

"I'm sorry, Ringo, but—"

"My name is  _Matthew_ ," the guy interrupted, frowning.

Okay, so one of the Gospels. Not Beatles. Zach had been close. "Matthew," he corrected himself. He smiled apologetically. "Uh, I could give you a blowjob before you go?" Matthew was already putting his shirt back on.

Overall, Zach had had worst dates.

* * *

Maybe a little background was in order. 

A year prior to the events portrayed in this work, international radiowaves had been under attack from a dastardly Straight White Ally Rapper™ known simply by the calling card "Macklemore". Waxing poetic about hand-me-down overcoats and his brief adolescent foray into homosexuality, Macklemore had captivated the eardrums of teenagers and young adults everywhere with his smooth (and appropriative) tones. Along with the aid of his trusty canine sidekick, Ryan Lewis, Macklemore white-rapped his way to the top of the charts in 2013 in a period of time referred to simply as  _The Rise to Power_.

He didn't stop there; at the 2014 Grammy's, he was joined by Queen Latifa in uniting several gay couples in (un)holy matrimony. The former duo, now trio, had been gaining power ever since.

Whatever his aim was, it became clear that Macklemore was not to be trusted—and, so, an idea was formed by a branch of government so top secret not even the people who work in it know its name. More specifically, a team—consisting of hand-picked celebrities Terrence Howard, Ben Stiller, Ludacris, Cuba Gooding Jr., and Zachary Quinto. Dubbed simply the Mackle No More League, their mission was simple: track down Macklemore and put an end to his reign of terror (and rap music) before it was too late.

Their story begins here.

* * *

It was 45 minutes after the fiasco that was supposed to be Zach's latest one night stand, and Zach was alternating between obsessively recounting everything in his hastily-packed suitcases and playing Tetris on his phone. There were  _more_ cliche ways to pass the time while waiting for your friends to pick you up, he realized. At least he hadn’t started pacing around yet. 

It wasn't until Zach had dozed off in the middle of thinking of a clever caption for a picture of his luggage on Instagram that there was a loud knock at the front door. And then another loud knock. Then the tune of Pharrell’s "Get Lucky" via loud knocks. Zach wrenched open the door in the middle of the second stanza, hissing out a loud "This lead better be worth it."

Terrence smiled serenely at him. "Oh, it is." He picked up two of Zach's suitcases. "Hurry up. We have to get to the airport in two days, so we're—" 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Zachary interrupted, reaching out for one of his suitcases and trying to tug it from Terrence's grip. "Aren't we leaving, like, today?" 

Terrence was already walking out the front door with Zach's stuff. "About that," he said, smiling that infuriating smile still. "We had to improvise with a slightly different airport for certain, ah, cargo."

Zachary groaned. "Please tell me we're not taking the van to Sochi." 

"We sure are!" Terrence exclaimed. He whistled cheerfully as he lead Zachary towards what would surely be his early demise via embarrassment. Before Zach could follow, however grudgingly, he was ambushed by Cuba and Ludacris who (despite the fact he'd just seen them at the weekly Wednesday meeting) hugged him like he had just risen from the dead. Which he hadn't. Yet. He'd have to wait and see how the whole "dying from embarrassment" thing worked out. 

"We missed our token gay," Cuba sighed happily, once he and Ludacris had released Zach. "Also, do you have any snacks." 

There was a loud honking from the driveway, and Zach was sure Terrence was breaking several community courtesies-slash-laws regarding early morning noise disturbance. "Get in, losers," Terrence shouted, "we're picking up Ben!" 

* * *

On the way to Ben's condo, Terrence filled Zach in on the details by pulling up a news article timestamped a little over a week ago on his phone and handing it over to him. “‘ _Shrek_ Actress Missing’?” Zach raised an eyebrow, but Terrence motioned for him to keep reading.

“‘Actress Cameron Diaz was reported missing a little past 11 am today’,” Zach read aloud. “'Friends stopped by to—’ okay, how does this involve Macklemore?” he interrupted himself, and Terrence sighed. 

“Scroll down to the end,” he explained.

_The only clues police found in Diaz’s residence were dog footprints tracking in and out of the building and an oversized secondhand overcoat that—_

“Oh,” Zach said, now understanding. They had seen clues like this before; it was Macklemore’s trademark, his calling card, left behind at each and every one of his crime scenes. Just enough information to bewilder the police and tease people like the League. 

Terrence smirked a bit. “There’s another article the next day about her cell phone pinging off a tower in Sochi. I hope you like the Olympics.”

Zach found the article Terrence was talking about, but he wasn’t feeling very confident. They were good at their job, yes, but when Macklemore decided to take someone that was it. No trace of them was ever seen again, dead body or otherwise. The last time, it had been Eminem, forcefully dragged from his home the night before the fellow white rapper was scheduled to record a new album. Whether corporally absorbed by Macklemore or simply taken out as a threat to the art of white rap, it was uncertain, but whatever Macklemore’s connection with and abduction of Cameron Diaz entailed it wouldn’t be good.

The upside (or so Terrence had explained to Zach a few seconds later) was that he had found an airline willing to transport both them and their van to Sochi for a fair rate. The downside was that the only airport that would do it took forever to accept their reservation (thus how late after the kidnapping they were flying) and was stationed halfway across the country and they would have to drive all the way from California to goddamn New York.  _They would take turns driving_ , Terrence explained.  _Cuba and Ludacris brought snacks_ , he supplied.  _Stop trying to jump out of the moving car, Zach, we're on the highway_.

It wasn't the distance Zachary had a problem with. It was the van.

Or, to be precise, the hunk of metal christened the Mackle No More Van by the rest of the League.

A huge thing that Ben had once driven during his hippie phase in high school, it was promoted to the League's official mode of transportation when it became clear Terrence's Prius nor Zach's Hybrid would suit their needs. It was oddly spacious, now; one of the first things Terrence had done when Ben offered it up was remove the standard-issue seats and install actual carpet. Ben claimed responsibility for the bean-bag chairs and the fully-stocked mini fridge. Ludacris and Cuba were the ones who installed the TV with cable and amped up the stereo system. Terrence wired up a few outlets so they could use computers and the like on the go. Zachary, meanwhile, was the one who vetoed the disco ball.

Ben called it their home away from home. Zachary called it a slightly tackier version of the Mystery Machine.

And now that massive van with its bright green paintjob and “Mackle No More Van” lettered in messy neon purple on its side (Ludacris and Cuba had taken Zach's Mystery Machine comment a little too much to heart) would be joining the League in Russia.

Zachary wondered if it was inappropriate to hope the plane went down halfway across the ocean and the van was lost at sea.

They pulled up at Ben’s apartment a little over 20 minutes after they left Zach’s, and Cuba and Ludacris immediately offered to go in and collect him. Zach suspected that had something to do with the already dwindling snack food supply in the back of the van and designs on raiding Ben’s fridge.

It turned out he was right. Ben walked out a few minutes later, Cuba and Ludacris trailing behind him. Ludacris was carrying Ben’s sparse luggage and Cuba’s arms were full of food and beverages that probably came from his kitchen. Zach hoped alcohol was amid it. He was going to need it.

“Terrence!” he called out, waving happily at Terrence. Terrence waved back, then turned to Zach.

“Sorry, shotgun is Ben’s seat.” He unbuckled Zach’s seatbelt, shoving his carry-on backpack into his arms. “Have fun in the back.”

Zach shot him a murderous glare as Ludacris manhandled him into the extraordinarily spacious back of the Mackle No More Van.

* * *

Bill "Play That Funky Music White Boy" Clinton plopped down into a lounge chair a few yards away from the jacuzzi in which his associates were swaggin' out. He sipped at the cherry limeade (with a touch of kiwi) in his hand, and leaned back with his eyes closed, letting his ghost white hair settle on the back of the pleasantly warm material. He felt a presence settle down in the chair next to his. "Baby, this is the life."

"I'm not your 'baby', asshole,” said a very masculine voice that  _did not_ belong to his Hilly. His eyes shot open to see Mitt Romney in all his republican glory. Bill had the decency to blush.

"Sorry 'bout that, Mittens. So, ah, why aren't you chilling in the hot tub with the rest?" Former president Clinton glanced at the group just as Barack had playfully splashed Sam Jackson. The other man responded by pulling out a water gun from Idris-Elba-Knows-Where and spraying the leader of the free world right in the face. Bill couldn't help but smile.

Mitt, on the other hand, looked just as gloomy as he always did.

"Funny, I was gonna ask you the same question. You should be hanging with your lame friends."

"Eh," Bill shrugged, taking another sip of his delicious beverage. "Sometimes a fella just wants some time to himself. Joe and I also have a competition going on to see who can get the best tan by the end of the Games, even though it's totally winter. That's weird, right?" It was. "Anyway, I'm trying to get a head start. I wasn't called the 'First Black President' for nothing."

It's true. He was called that. I don't know why.

"Whatever, just don't talk to me while I'm napping, alright?" The failure settled down, body turned away from him. Billy's eyebrows scrunched in concern, but he carried on with his juice-sippin'.

Several minutes passed before Barack and the White House Boys hopped out of the jacuzzi and made their way over to the chairs. The Queen was stationed in her royal suite, receiving a lecture on concealed weapon laws in Russia from Advisor Smith, while Michelle and Hillary were out shopping for said weapons (for protection, of course).

"How you fine ladies doing? Bill, you look absolutely ravishing--Joe's got his work cut out for him." Barack grabbed a towel that was sitting on the small, wicker table that stood between the lounge chairs. "Mitt, I truly wish I could say the same for you. Wait, no I don't. You look like roadkill after being put through a cheese grater." Joe and Sam cackled behind the president as he crossed his arms in triumph. Mitt was enraged.

He was out of his chair in less than a second. "What the fuck did you just say to me you little bitch? I'll have you know that--"

"Save the tears for someone who gives a damn about your dead toad-sounding ass!" piped in Joe just as John Cleese appeared behind the gaggle of politicians. The elder put a stiff hand to his heart before running away from the pool area in grief.

Mitt looked pained. "I came out here to have a good time and I am honestly feeling so attacked right now."

"Too bad, sucker." Sam cracked his knuckles. "Because, I foresee a curb stomp battle in the near future if you talk shit about my boy, Barry, ever again."

Bill finally decided to cut in. "TBH, Barack tried to drag Mitt first." Everyone gaped at him in shock. Why the DUCK was Bill Clinton  _defending_  his comrade's worst enemy?!

Joe frowned. "I can't fucking believe it. Bill Sirius Clinton, you are a double-crosser!"

An array of things were cried at that moment, one of them being a perplexed, "Since when was my middle name Sirius", a frustrated "Joe, you can't just accuse people of being double-crossers" and a screeched " _ANARCHY!!!!!_ ".

That was when everything went black.

* * *

The League had been on the road for several hours when they hit their first bump in the road. Metaphorical bump, that is. They had driven over many non-metaphorical bumps prior to that. "Shit," Terrence sighed, glancing down at the gas gauge on the Mackle No More Van. "Ben, the tank's almost empty, I have to pull off at a gas station."

Ben didn't answer; he had dozed off in the passenger's seat, his worn paperback edition of  _Sex, Love, and You_  still resting on his lap. Terrence smiled fondly at his sleeping friend, gently reaching over to fold the book closed and tuck it on the island between the two seats.

Luckily, there was a Shell station up ahead, and Terrence quickly pulled into it.

"What gives, man?" he heard Ludacris shout from the back of the van.

"Gas stop," Terrence shouted back, getting out.

Zachary poked his head out of the window. "Hey, while you're paying for the gas," he said, sunglasses slipping down his nose, "could you pick up a few cases of Diet Coke? Cuba drank it all."

There was a distant shout of "I did not!" from somewhere behind Zach. Terrence chuckled. "Sure," he said, nodding.

Cuba's head appeared next to Zach's a second later. "I'm surprised he didn't ask you to get him condoms, Terr," he said, elbowing Zach out of the way and smirking. "Did he tell you who he’s meeting in Sochi? His  _boyfrie_ -!"

Zach made a strangled hissing noise. "Chris Pine is  _not_  my boyfriend!" he insisted, face pink, "He's not! We just...mutually appreciate each other's, um, acting abilities."

Ludacris stuck his head out the window too. "Cuba and I are already planning out your Big Gay Wedding," he said with an even bigger smirk than Cuba's. Terrence wondered how on earth all their heads fit in the window. He hoped they didn’t get stuck.

"Please don't kill each other while I'm paying for gas," he sighed, walking away from his arguing friends and towards the station.

* * *

A little while later, the gang was once again on their merry way to the airport when the funky beat of R. Kelly's most beloved song began to play over the radio waves of the Mackle No More Van. "Now I usually don't do this but uh...lets bring them a little preview of the remix," R. Kelly intoned. Ludacris began whooping and hollering, for the Ignition Remix was his jam. Terrence chuckled, twisting the volume knob, making the beautiful song spill loudly out of the speakers. Luda began to sing enthusiastically, almost as well as the famed R&B singer on the radio. Zachary laughed and decided to join in.

"So baby give me that TOOT TOOT," the gay yelled out of the back window of the van.

"Let me give you that BEEP BEEP," Cuba screeched, leaning over Terrence's seat to honk the horn.

Ludacris took over once more with a, "Running her hands through my fro, bouncing on 24's, while they sayin they ready--"

Benjamin G. Stiller, having previously been silent, screamed, "IT'S THE REMIX TO IGNITION, HOT AND FRESH OUT THE KITCHEN."

Terrence smiled warmheartedly at his friend, glad that he was really warming up to the rest of the league. "Mama rolling that body, got every man in here wishing."

Zachary popped another bottle in the back, singing off key as he poured the liquor into his mouth, "we sippin on coke and rum, I'm like 'so what I'm drunk'."

Ludacris punched a hole through the roof of the ceiling, singing "IT'S THE FREAKING WEEKEND BABY IM ABOUT TO HAVE ME SOME FUN!!!!!"

R. Kelly's soulful series of "bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce" played softly in the background as Terrence stopped the car, turning around slowly to face the rapper.

"Did you...did you just punch a hole through my damn car?"

* * *

_**24 Hours Before Simon's Turn-Up Function** _

The Mackle No More Van was making good progress; they would arrive at the airport to fly to Sochi in no time, and Ben had made reservations at a hotel near the airport so they could catch a good night's sleep before their flight took off. Terrence and Ben periodically took turns driving so neither one would get too tired, and it hardly felt like they had been driving for a whole day.

Meanwhile, in the back of the Van, Ludacris was trying to get Cuba and Zach to watch  _Crash_ with him. Except he kept skipping through all the parts that didn't involve him.

"Terrence is in  _Crash_ too," Cuba pointed out. "We could watch his scenes. Don’t you have one with him, anyway?"

"My  _solo_ scenes are a lot better," Ludacris sniffed. "Now shut the fuck up and make popcorn."

Zach's phone suddenly lit up, and Cuba hurled himself across the van to reach it before Zach could even react. "It's your boyfriend," he said gleefully, easily bypassing the passcode and showing the screen to Ludacris and Zach.

Zach blushed. "Okay, first, he's not my boyfriend," he said, "and second, how did you guess my password?"

Cuba rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's literally 'Spock'. Try picking a  _less obvious_  character you've played." He quickly scrolled through Zach's texts, smirk growing wider as he read the latest one.

"What does it say?" Ludacris asked eagerly. Zach felt his ears begin to metaphorically burn.

"'Can't wait to see you'," Cuba read aloud in a surprisingly good impression of Chris Pine's voice. Zach wondered how many times he’d practiced doing it. "'Zoe and the rest of the squad are here too. Meet up for dinner tomorrow? xx'."

"At least it wasn't a sext," Ludacris said with a shrug.

Zach was torn between punching his friends and squealing like a prepubescent schoolgirl. Just wait until the I Have A (Probably) Unrequited Gay Crush On My Co-Star Support Group heard about this; Sebastian would be so jealous! Zach was just entertaining the vague idea that maybe this meant he was going to be rejected from the group (it was for  _unrequited_  crushes after all) and would have to give back the great monogrammed towels when a horrible idea hit him.

"Oh no," he said aloud, "does he mean dinner with me, or dinner with  _me and friends_?"

"You're adorable," Cuba said fondly. After a second, he added "Send him a dickpic."

Zach hoped the van went off a cliff.

* * *

"Fuck, Terrence, I'm starving," Ludacris complained after they had been on the road for a several  _more_  hours, sticking his head through the partition separating the front and back of the van. To Terrence's left, Ben was still sleeping. "Can we stop and get something to eat?"

Terrence made a face. "Didn't you bring snacks?"

"Yeah, we did," Ludacris said with an eyeroll, "but Cuba fuckin' ate them all. All we have left are some weird-ass organic fruit bars Zach brought."

From the back of the van, Terrence heard Zachary protest "They're nutritious!" at the same time Cuba shouted "You ate just as much as I did, asshole!"

Terrence sighed, glancing down at the car clock as he signaled his right blinker. They were making good time, it was only 3 pm; their flight didn't leave for a long while, and the airport wasn't much further away. And, hell, he was hungry too, and probably so was Ben. "Alright," Terrence said with a smile as he let a car pass him, "there's a McDonald's up ahead, we just have to go through the next exit. We could go there?"

Ludacris's face split into a wide grin and Cuba cheered loudly in the back. "You're the best, Terrence!" Ludacris exclaimed.

20 minutes later, Terrence was walking out of McDonald's with several carry-out bags in hand as Ludacris and Cuba watched from the window of the van, bouncing excitedly in their beanbag chairs like small children. They practically tackled Terrence when he opened the door, eagerly grabbing the food out of his hands.

Zachary watched them dig into their food with mild apprehension. "I don't understand how you can eat that stuff," he said, with a sniff of disgust. "I can hear your arteries clogging from here."

Ludacris threw a fry at his head. "Oh, go eat your weird organic shit and text your boyfriend in the corner over there."

Zachary turned pink. "He's not my boyfriend," he mumbled, before doing exactly what Ludacris had suggested.

In the front of the car, Terrence was debating whether or not to wake up Ben when Ben himself saved him the trouble. He woke up with a loud yawn, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight. "Hey," he said with a sleepy smile after noticing Terrence hovering over him.

Terrence drew back slightly, trying to quash the sudden nervousness spreading through his system (that had  _nothing_  to do with his close proximity to Ben, nope). "Hi," he said back, smiling in return, before tossing a McDonald's bag at his friend.

"What's this?" Ben asked with a raised eyebrow, peering into the bag.

"Dinner," Terrence said. "I got you your favorite-–the nugget meal."

He had to look away from the beam Ben gave him a second later, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He was just tired, he told himself. That's why he was acting so weirdly around Ben. He'd have Zachary take over for him once they all finished eating.

Suddenly, Ludacris shouted from the back, "Turn the fuckin' radio on, man, we didn't install the stereo system for nothing!"

"Just don't punch another goddamn hole in my roof," Terrence grumbled, momentary awkwardness forgotten, but he turned the radio on anyway.

The smooth, mournful saxophone music of George Michael's "Careless Whisper" filled the van, and Ludacris and Cuba groaned almost in unison.

"Change away from this shit," Cuba pleaded, and Terrence was about to oblige when Ben's hand grabbed his in mid-reach for the radio dial.

"Wait," Ben said sheepishly. Terrence was distinctly aware of the fact that Ben hadn't let go of his hand yet, and he felt his face begin to burn. "I like this song," he continued.

As Terrence quickly withdrew his hand, Ben turned the radio up and began to sing along softly (saxophone parts and all). Seeing his friend like that was worth all the loud complaints from Ludacris and Cuba in the back any day, Terrence decided.

* * *

By the time the Mackle No More League arrived at the airport in New York, checked their baggage, loaded the van up onto the plane, took off, and touched down in Sochi, it was the morning of the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics. As the reader may recall, the previous chapter ("Simon Cowell's Turn-Up Function") took place the night before the Ceremony. So, no more fucking with timelines, everything is caught up.

Tensions were running somewhat high among the League, as their flight had been late  _and_ the airport back in New York had confiscated all their weapons. Something about """concealed firearms""" and """if you don't comply we'll be forced to arrest you, sir""" and other  _completely unreasonable_  stuff like that. Clearly Southwest Airlines clearly didn't know who they were dealing with.

"At least we made it," Zach said with a shrug.

"At least they didn't raid the gun compartment of the Van," Terrence sighed, grabbing his suitcase off the luggage cartel and walking away to help Ben with his.

And that was when Zach got arrested.

* * *

Bill's piercing sapphire eyes blinked open, irritated by the bright light that was shining from a fluorescent lightbulb hanging naked from the ceiling of what appeared to be a cell. Was this one of his  _Orange is the New Black_  fantasies? If so, where were the rugged yet beautiful women tearing off his officer uniform?

He elevated himself off of the cold, concrete ground, and rubbed his eyes to get a better view of the place. He wasn't alone: Mitt was lying, unconscious, not too far away from him in the small room, while the others were stirring in the cell across from his. How could this have happened? Who had captured them?

"Ah, I see you have woken up. Very well, then. Slave! Retrieve the keys so I can release these fools." Ordered a voice dripping with an English accent. Was it Benadryl Cumbatch.

An equally English voice responded with, "That won't be needed, old friend. I'll get them out myself." Suddenly the bars to the cell were bent, the creaking noise nearly splitting Bill's ears open before they snapped like twigs before him. Footsteps could be heard, along with light conversation before two men, who had to both be in their 70s at the least, stood in front of both cells with looks of pride on their handsome faces.

Sam, who was fully awake now, shouted, "Hey! I know you assholes! You're--"

"Yes, we're Sirs Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart," the balder one said with a slight smile to his lips. Sam shook his head.

"No! You're the psychos that--" he stopped mid-sentence and dropped to his knees. Patrick was holding a hand to his temple while Ian smirked.

"You've never seen us before in your entire life." He spoke calmly, waiting for Sam to nod and lay back down on the ground. His hand dropped from his head and he faced Bill whose eyes were wide. "You must be Mr. Clinton! Nice to meet you. Since you seem to be the most coherent at the moment--"

"That's the first time anyone's ever said that about me."

"--I presume you wouldn't mind leading your friends to a more...comfortable area for our upcoming chat?"

Bill shrugged. "Depends on the chat, buddy."

Ian stepped in. "A chat regarding your mortality. Discussing whether or not we should cut your throats or send you on your merry way. That clear?"

Joe was up by now, clutching the bars of his not-yet-broken cell and saying, "You guys are too old and cute to be villains. Who are you  _really_   working for? The KGB? I should've fucking known."

"Joseph if you don't calm your decrepit ass down..." Barack muttered to himself as he rubbed at his aching head.  _What the healthcare are they gonna do to us?_

Sir McKellen, fortunately for the politicians, blatantly ignored Joe's usual paranoia and snapped his fingers at Bill. "Chop, chop, Mr. Clinton. We don't have much time." Bill acquiesced despite there being the issue of Mitt's continued lethargy. He grasped him into his strong, pulsating arms, bridal-style, and lead the rest, who too had had their cell bars broken, into a room that was being pointed at by the accomplished actors.

Bill had to compliment them on their decorating skills. The walls were covered in artifacts and paintings that were probably stolen from the Louvre. The floor was carpeted, which was a nice change from the unforgiving hardness of the floors that the gang had woken up on. The plush couches were home to adorable little pillows with knitted-on sayings like "No Place Like Home" and "I went to Soviet Russia and only got this lousy pillow". Bill felt an urge to play the sax in ode to a room like this.

He sat down on one of the couches, laying Mitt across his lap with his loafered feet just hitting the armrest. Sam took the rocking chair in the corner while Barack and Joe shared the love seat. If they hadn't been kidnapped and forced to be there, Bill thought that it would have looked like the crew relaxing in the hotel room.

"So," Sir Stewart began, still standing. "You must be wondering why we have gathered you here."

"Yeah, I don't really remember the gathering part, just the being knocked out and dragged here part, so..." whispered Joe to Barack who quickly shushed him.

"We are aware of your loyalty and employment to the Queen in regards to this whole 'assassination fiasco', which, by the way, is ridiculous. No one is trying to hurt the Queen. I mean, if they were, she surely would be dead by now, am I right?" Patrick reasoned with a chuckle. The seated men shifted uncomfortably. They had no idea what he was getting at.

Ian joined in on the light laughter. "Exactly! These little 'accidents' are on her. She  _is_ getting quite up there in years."

"But, how does that explain the crocodile being snuck into the palace?!" Sam accused, voice raised. "Or all that other stuff? The Queen is in danger and it is our duty to protect her at all costs!"

"That's sweet, it really is. But, the Queen is fine. Honest."

Bill couldn't take it anymore; he had to speak up. Mitt was getting heavy. "So, is that why we're here? You're tryin' to tell us to leave the Queen alone? I'm afraid we can't do that."

Patrick growled. "You can, and you will! It's really not that difficult. You either disband your little bodyguard club for the Queen, or we kill you. Make the decision fast, because Ian and I have a swing dance class to attend at six o'clock sharp."

Ian gasped. "I forgot all about that! I'm going to need to get out my good shoes for this..."

"But, why? You can't just not give us a reason why, fuckholes." Barack asked, getting quite sick and tired of old white men telling him what to do.

Ian glared at him, before uttering, "Because, Mr. President, the Queen isn't as sweet and defenseless as she has lead you to believe."

* * *

Okay, so Zach didn’t actually get arrested.

What  _did_ happen was that two very large and very armed airport security guards marched over to him, hands on the guns in their holsters and looking very grim. And then proceeded to shove Zach against a wall and handcuff him.

“What,” Zach said, completely confused and feeling like he’d just accidentally fallen into a bad porno. He half-expected to hear loud, jazzy saxophone music start playing over the intercom.

“Think you’re clever?” one of the guards said.“Using a fake name to come into  _our_ country and get on with your sick kicks?” He had a thick Russian accent, probably because they were in Sochi, Russia. Actually, they would probably be speaking Russian because they were Russians who lived in Russia but the only Russian I know is from  _Winter Soldier_ fanfic, so, a suspension of belief may be required.

The other yanked Zach away from the wall not very gently. In fact, a better adjective would probably be ‘roughly’. The other guard yanked Zach away from the wall  _roughly_. “Your serial killer days are over, asshole.”

Zach was torn between laughing hysterically and having a mental breakdown. “I’m not,” he began weakly. “I’m not a serial killer, I just--I just play one on TV.” He looked to the League for support, but Cuba and Ludacris had vanished half an hour ago to find a snack bar and Terrence and Ben were distracted by baggage claim a while away and did not see the events that were currently unfolding.

“That’s what the last guy said, too,” the guard that was gripping Zach’s right arm snarled. “‘Anthony Hopkins’, or whatever his name  _really_ was. We saw who he was. Cannibal or women-hater, it's our job to stop scum like you from entering this beautiful country.”

Zach was leaning towards a mix of hysterical laughter and mental breakdown now. “Look, guys,” he said, swallowing down said hysterical laughter, “I think we can probably work something out here.” His mind whirled, and he was about to make up a bullshit excuse about murderous twin brothers when someone suddenly cleared their throat behind the guards.

He nearly cried with relief when he saw who it was.

“Hey babe,” said Chris Pine, whipping off a pair of sunglasses that he was wearing (despite being indoors in the middle of winter) and revealing his amazing blue eyes. Seriously, what the fuck, he has like anime eyes or something. “These guys giving you trouble?”

So, “babe” was a little unexpected. It seemed to work, though, because one of the guards let him go and turned to Chris. “Who are--?” And then Chris punched the guy in the face.

"Run!” he said, taking advantage of both the guards’ temporary shock to pull Zach free.

(Zach didn’t swoon. Much.)

They sprinted the fuck out of there, and after a few seconds of running Chris said "Behind here!" and dragged Zach over and under the counter of a Smoothie Czar, which Zach guessed was the Russian equivalent of Smoothie King. They sat crouched behind the counter and listened as the guards ran past them, swearing and shouting loudly in Russian. Zach suddenly became aware that Chris had been holding his hand the whole time and had yet to let go. He was not complaining.

(Side note: you're probably wondering about the drunk text thing from the previous chapter, now that timelines are finally lining up. I didn't forget, promise. It will be addressed. Soon.)

"Hey," said one of the Smoothie Czar workers, frowning at Zach and Chris. "Aren't you like, famous?"

"Yeah," Chris said.

Zach, a little out of breath from all the running, gave Chris a grateful smile. "I owe you one, man, why were you even here? And, uh." He turned pink. "What's up with the 'babe' business?"

Chris shrugged. "You were late, so I figured you had car troubles or something and I could help. And I had an idea about pretending to be your boyfriend, or whatever, but I kinda panicked." He suddenly winced, massaging his temples. "Man, I'm so fuckin' hungover. I went to this huge party last night and  _literally_  remember nothing that happened."

(Side note: including the text.)

"Well, that explains the sunglasses."

Chris winked, sliding the shades back on. "Nah, I just look really cool in them."

Ludacris chose that moment to hop over the counter as well and join them on the floor. "Hey, you found your BF!" he exclaimed happily, beaming at Chris and clapping him on the back. He turned to Zach, giving him a serious look. "But, really, man, Terrence was looking everywhere for your gay ass."

"I had minor legal trouble," Zach explained apologetically.

"I may have committed a slight felony," Chris added, not apologetically.

Ludacris took it all in stride. "Cool," he said, shrugging. He stood up, flashing the cashier (who looked a little starstruck from having three celebrities in the smoothie stand with her) a winning smile. "Anyway, Terrence is about to hit the road with or without you, so you better kiss your boyfriend goodbye and come with me," he continued.

"Thanks again," Zach said, smiling at Chris and pointedly ignoring Ludacris's boyfriend comment.

"No problem." Chris grinned. "Hey, I know I asked you about dinner with the  _Star Trek_ squad tonight, but want to hit the bar instead? There's a great one near the hotel. And,” he continued, “speaking of the squad, we’re gonna sit together for the Opening Ceremony. We can pick you up in front of the hotel at noon?”

Zach nodded, grinning with excitement over both the prospect of a (platonic, he reminded himself) date with Chris and seeing his old  _Star Trek_ pals. “Sounds great! See you then!”

Ludacris had lost his patience somewhere around five minutes before Chris and Zach's exchange began. " _Move_ ," he said, physically dragging Zach back over the counter and to where the rest of the League was waiting out front in the Van.

"He saved me," Zach sighed happily when Chris was out of earshot. "He saved me, and," he fell silent. "Wait, did he mean that  _just the two of us_ are hitting the bar or weare hitting the bar  _with the_ Star Trek  _squad_?"

Ludacris shoved him in the back of the Mackle No More Van for the second time in two days.

* * *

The drive to the hotel seemed endless, but it really only took a few minutes. When they pulled up, Ludacris poked his head out of the van window for what seemed like the 100th time that day, bouncing in his chair like a toddler. "We're here!" he practically shouted, yanking Cuba over to him so his best friend could see too and pointing out the window. "That's our hotel!"

Terrence chuckled, but he was too busy scanning their surrounding area for a good parking spot to comment. Ben, however, was not, and before Terrence could blink,  he was jumping out of his seat and seatbelt and joining Ludacris by the window. "I hope there's a pool," he said excitedly. "I brought my swimsuit just in case!"

Cuba snorted. "It's  _below freezing_  out, dumbass."

"An indoor one, then."

Zachary awoke from where he had up until then being sleeping soundly on the small sofa Cuba had installed in the van a few months back. "We're finally here?" he asked sleepily, blinking and rubbing at his eyes. "Good. Now I don't have to listen to you idiots sing along to Lana Del Rey anymore."

Ludacris looked miffed. "Lana Del Rey is an artist," he said, scowling at Zachary. "Just because you can't  _appreciate her talent_  like you  _mutually appreciate_  your boyfriend's—"

"Found a parking spot!" Terrence shouted in an effort to shut Ludacris up. He'd heard Ludacris's spiel about Lana Del Rey fifty times before, and he wasn't eager to hear it repeated yet again. It worked; all heads snapped in his direction as Terrence pulled into a spot near the front of the hotel.

"I call the biggest bed!" Cuba shouted, grabbing his suitcase and bursting out of the back doors of the van.

As Ludacris ran after him with his own suitcase, yelling something about Cuba always getting the best bed, Terrence couldn't help but smile.

The Mackle No More League made their way into Hotel Rwanda, a task made exceedingly difficult by the fact that Ludacris, Ben, and Cuba kept getting distracted every few seconds by one thing or another. The first time it was because of a giant fountain in front of the hotel that looked like "A giant dick", as Ludacris eloquently put it. The next couple times were because of fellow celebrities that were also staying there for the Olympics ("Was that Steve Buscemi?!", "Yeah, I think it was, but that's Lucy Liu over there!").

"Can we please just check in already?" Terrence sighed, after physically dragging Ben away from Bill Murray, who had been standing by the elevator moments prior.

"Seriously," Zachary said, annoyed. "The Opening Ceremony is in 30 minutes and I'm supposed to meet Chris, Zoe, Karl, and Simon out front, like," he looked at his wristwatch, "right now."

"Need to get prettied up for your boyfriend?" Cuba asked innocently, wide smirk betraying his tone. "Or are we not good enough to compare to your super cool new  _Star Trek_  buddies?"

Zachary blushed yet again. "Shut up," he said. He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, frowning when he realized it was still turned off from the flight; he hoped Chris hadn’t tried to contact him since then.

Finally, miraculously, they had reached the counter. Setting his suitcase down at his side, Terrence smiled at the woman behind said counter. "Hi," he said, "I booked a room a few months ago under the name of 'Howard'?"

The woman nodded, smiling. "You're lucky you got your rooms when you did," she told him, clicking a couple times on her keyboard. "We're completely booked." She clicked a few more times, before handing over a couple sets of room keys to Terrence. "Room 1369, two bathrooms and four beds."

"It should be  _five_  beds," Terrence corrected her, brow creasing with confusion. "Not four."

The woman frowned at Terrence. "You only booked a four-bed hotel room, sir."

Ben clapped Terrence on the shoulder. "Hey, 'Rance, it's okay," he said reassuringly. "I'll just share one with Ludacris."

Ludacris looked less than thrilled at the idea, muttering something about "ga!y", but Terrence forced himself to smile back at Ben. He couldn't squash the odd disappointed feeling inside of him though; why did Ben want to share a bed with Ludacris and not him? Shouldn't he be  _relieved_  that Ben didn't want to share with him?

The sounds of Cuba shouting "Holy shit, they've got a café!" and subsequent sprinting down the hall snapped Terrence out of his thoughts and he rolled his eyes.

"Cuba, come back!" he groaned loudly. Sometimes, he felt like everyone's mother.

* * *

"What do you mean, you dusty loaves of bread?" Sam Jackson was outraged by now. How dare they say something like that about his Queen?!

"The Queen is a menace! A bigot! A scoundrel!"

"Calm the heck down, Ian." Patrick said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "If it wasn't already obvious, we don't like Queen Elizabeth II. She's trying to run a tyranny, we can just feel it in our bones."

"Are you sure that's not just arthritis?" Mitt yawned, finally awake and rising off of Bill's grateful lap.

"Silence, human." Ian bit out, turning away from everyone to face the wall. "It all started in the summer of '51, when Elizabeth became queen. She started...started pushing all this legislation on the Prime Minister, ordering for anti-mutant propaganda. Tensions grew all over the UK, causing mass chaos, it was--"

"Hold up, did you say  _mutant_?!" Bill asked, flabbergasted.

"Don't interrupt!" Patrick yelled, urging his husband to continue.

"It was terrible. I mean, it was pretty easy to hide the fact that you were mutant so it's not like things got near genocidal at any point, but it still kinda sucked. People constantly questioning you, screaming at you for no reason, not trusting your authority..."

"Gayyy lmao," muttered the president.

"And  _now_ , my stars, that woman's gone mad! She's on her way to outlawing mutant adoption! It's... v i l e."

“Mutant adoption?” Barack repeated, at the same time Joe said “How did you do that cool thing with the spaces in between the letters like that?” Barack shot him his best Mr. President Thinks You’re Being A Dumb Shit look.

“Yes, mutant adoption!” Patrick exclaimed. “Why, Ian and I have been trying to adopt a son for 17 years now.” He teared up a little, pulling out his cell phone and scrolling through his camera roll before flashing a picture of  _American Horror Story_  star Evan Peters at Barack and the Gang. “Isn’t he precious?”

“And he would be our son, too, if it wasn’t for the  _Queen_ ,” Ian cut in bitterly, as Patrick’s tears began to fall freely. Ian placed a gentle hand on his husband’s back, soothing him.

“So…” Billiam squinted at the two  _X-Men_ stars. “You’re saying you want us to lay off and let the Queen get killed so it’s easier for you to adopt an (albeit cute) 27 year old?”

Ian nodded. "Now, do we have a deal?"

Before anyone else could say anything along the lines of "heck to the no", Barack was up and stating, "Of course. We'll do everything we can to not interfere with your cause."

There was a glint to Sir Patrick's eye. "I knew that you of all people would see reason, Mr. President." He marched over to the intercom behind him and bellowed, "Slave! Stop diddly-daddling and lead these kind gentlemen out of the building, please and thank you."

Nicholas Hoult crawled from out of a hole that suddenly appeared in the wall and promptly showed the apprehensive crew out, and back into the sunlight.

The door slammed unceremoniously behind them before anyone was able to question their newfound whereabouts.

"So...," Mitt started after giving a fake cough. "What do we do now?"

"Well, we're here, we're queer, and I want beer; let's take Russia and make it our oyster!" Joe screamed into the sky. Barack giggled and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"Prepare yourself, Sochi," He said before taking a swag-stealing drag of a cigarette that appeared in his hand out of nowhere. "The bear is loose."

Mitt's eyes squinted. "What does that even mean."

Before he could find the answer to a question that has been on one of the author's mind for a week now, Barack's phone began to ring a [quite provocative remix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5tVbVu9Mkg&feature=kp) of the song, "Cooking By the Book" from  _Lazy Town_ , which the authors suggest you listen through headphones. He removed it from his pocket to see that the call was from the Queen herself. He quickly hit the "ignore" button, hoping that the feeling of guilt in the pit of his stomach would dissipate with time, and milkshakes spiked with Russian liquor. "C'mon, losers, let's get drunk off our asses."

"If this causes an international crisis, I'm blaming you." Sam said, rolling up the sleeves of his leather trench coat in preparation for such merry-making.

Once they had reached the pub that Bill had found on the Slavic equivalent of Yelp, they were already half tipsy on beer bought from street vendors and excitement. That was until Barack started receiving more and more calls from the Queen, resulting in POTUS being totally bummed out.

"Is she thirsty or what? Why hasn't she taken the hint yet?" Bill asked between gulps from a frothing mug.

Barry sighed. "Who knows, man." His Blackberry binged again and he sucked his teeth. "Now she's texting me. When will it end?"

"Just ignore it, that's what I do when those weirdos from Congress text me nonstop," Joe added.

Barack sighed. "I  _wish_ I could do that, but my phone doesn't have read notifications :(."

"Dude, 2008 called, they want their phone back." Sam laughed at his own joke before saying, "Wait, what would they be calling on if you have their phone..."

"Wait, I got it!" Barack fumbled with the tiny keys on his tiny phone, and enthusiastically hit the send button. He shoved the device into everyone's faces. "See! Look!  _SEE_!!!!"

"Um," Mitt started. "I don't think you texting her saying that her message was read at 6:37 is going to wor--"

"You know what, Mitt? For once, you're right. Her phone's still set on UK time! How could I have possibly forgotten?"

"Yeah, that's not what I--"

"I'm gonna call her and say that I'm ignoring her."

"Don't--"

Bill stopped him before he could say anything that would cause another bar brawl (the enemies had had a pretty fierce one only a day ago). "Mitt, you haven't drunk a sip of your beer! What's up?"

"I've come to realize that the only time I'd be seen as the most sensible one is when everyone else is intoxicated as hell."

"That's really sad, you know that?"

Mitt bowed his head. "Yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, one of the authors died (((is on vacation))) so it took a little bit longer than usual to get all the chapter parts together  
> u can still contact us on twitter @iceicebabyrpf, or on tumblr at barackandrollobama and buckgaybarnes (formerly tashaclint)  
> and, as always, we're so sorry for writing this


	8. Let the Gays Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brendan Fraser should really get a restraining order against Steve Martin, everyone really fucking regrets drinking so much the night before, family reunions are had, famous people are shitty babysitters, Mitt Romney can't do anything right, the Olympics actually start to happen, a cartoon owl sings, James Franco charms his way into Don Cheadle's heart even more, celebrities with the same names are pretty exclusive tbh, one of the authors lowkey hardcore ships Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie, and the Mackle No More League go all 21 Jump Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I can't believe it was a man." --R Kelly, "Trapped in the Closet"

Sandra Bullock stood in the hardware aisle of Bolsheviks R' Us (for all your revolutionary needs), waiting at the exact point at which she was instructed the night before. The call she had received at 2-fucking early in the morning-o'clock had been a mysterious one, the voice on the other line being completely untraceable in Sandy's internal Rolodex of voices kept at the back of her ever thinking mind. She followed the instructions of the caller regardless, never the one to fall short in the face of a challenge.

It was when she was busy flipping through a magazine of faux fur coats to endure the rest of the Russian winter with, that the Communism-red (#e34234) toolbox that had been right by her head had abruptly fallen to the other side of the shelf. A yelp of "ow, shit!" sounded from the other aisle, causing Sandra to drop the magazine. After kneeling over to retrieve it and rising back up, she was greeted with the sight of a pair of eyes that had always held a special place in her heart. "B-Brendan?!"

The eyes appeared to light up and began to crinkle in delight. "That's me! How're you doing, Sandy?"

The award-winning actress was speechless. She hadn't seen nor heard from her old flame, Brendan Fraser, in nine years. The only word of him that she ever received was from their son, Matthew Broderick, when he would go to his home for his court-ordered monthly visitations.

"I'm doing fine, if not a little tired after _someone's_ phone call woke me up in the middle of the night and wouldn't allow me to go back to sleep."

Brendan smiled sheepishly, making his classic "aw shucks, what're you gonna do with me?" face that Sandra couldn't recall ever turning away. Their divorce had lacked messiness, as they fit the Happily Divorced™ TvTrope to a T.

Their reunion was interrupted by a voice shouting, "Hey! That's a 600 ruble toolbox, you détente breaking scum!" A burly customer service worker emerged from the shadows. "You break it, you pay for it."

Brendan's mouth opened in an attempt to make an excuse for why he couldn't pay for it, but then shut at the sight of the employees large rifle. "Um...that's actually--Sandra, run!"

The former couple dashed out of the aisle, heading for the automatic doors that would lead them to safety.

That was, until, thirty guard dogs cut them off, blocking the exit and trapping the actors inside.

"Hm...what do we have here?" A hooded figure intoned from behind. The ex-lovers spun around in fear. Brendan's eyes grew wide. He knew that voice anywhere.

"Steve Martin...when will you leave me alone?!?!" He yelled, tears threatening to escape from his celestial sight orifices. "Why can't you let me live?!"

The white-haired _Cheaper by the Dozen_ star cackled. "Because, it brings me great pleasure to see you suffer, Mr. Fraser." He threw his head back and laughed again. "Of the sexual variety."

"You son of a fuck," Sandy gasped, hiding Brendan behind her. "Keep your filthy hands away from him!"

" _Oh_ Sandy," Steven taunted. "I know all about your and Brendan's little summer romance. Resulted in a beautiful baby by the name of Matthew...or, at least, that's what you lead him to believe." Sandra inhaled, and took a quick peek at the man behind her. He was oblivious. Typical. "Then to avoid judgement you two got hitched. Were happy at first, but the suddenness of it all made the whole thing feel...rushed...didn't it? You got divorced and went your separate ways...always wishing for a second chance to repent for your sins. That's what you two are, isn't it? Sinners. Despicable, deviant, sinners. I pray that you rot in the fiery pits of hell."

Brendan blinked. "Was any of that necessary? What was all the useless exposition for?"

"Heh, " the villain said. "Because I said so." Before the actors could say more, Steve threw back his head and yelled, "Doges! Seize them!"

The guard dogs, instead of barking, started gurgling, "much pain", "very bite", and "so seize".

"God!" Sandra cried. "Not memes!" She grabbed Brendan by the arm. "Anything but memes!"

Brendan continued to cower. "They could have at least been funny, fresh memes..."

Then the doges pounced.

* * *

"There you are, you pieces of dog shit--pardon my Russian." The Queen greeted them at the suite door. "Where the hell have you miscreants been? I called you at least a thousand times!"

Barack nearly collapsed in the threshold, alcohol replacing all the blood in his presidential veins. "H-how you...you? Doin' peaches?!"

Advisor Smith gasped. "My word, Mr. President, are you drunk?"

"The fu-u-u-uck...?!? Are...n't you?" He slurred, staggering to where his wife was standing in shock, arms crossed. "Heyyyy," a hiccup. "Mich...Michelle?! What the Daffy Duck is wro-ong?"

"Do you know what time it is?" Before he could answer, she went on, "it's 8:00 AM. The Opening Ceremony is in three hours, and _you have to make a speech_!”

Barack giggled. "Gayy lmao."

"Look," Madame Smith said, tips of her fingers squeezing the bridge of her nose. "If he's too inebriated to give the opening address, we can always have Mr. Biden do it."

JOE skipped up behind Hillary, scaring the living bejeesus out of her if she wasn't, in fact, a reanimated corpse. He spun around, arms spread out, hitting the former First Lady repeatedly. With a high-pitched squawk, he finished and collapsed into a heap at her feet. What the fuck.

"What the fuck," said Hillary, side-stepping the currently groaning politician. "Well, if these fools can't do the fucking speech, why not let Bill do it. He's great at--good--he's okay--um. He has had experience with public speaking."

"Was that shade?" Bill asked from his perch on top of the dresser.

The Queen sighed and plopped down onto the hotel sofa. "Clearly none of them are fit to give the speech. And, even if they were, they smell too much like vodka and ass."

Sam, who had only gained a slight buzz from the events of the evening before, replied with, "That's just the aroma of Russia."

"Okay? And?" Michelle challenged. "Go take a shower you smelly, godless mules."

"Anything you say, babe." Barack hugged her and went in the direction of the shower, stopped only by Joe's body still lying stiff on the ground.

"What are we going to do with these assholes?" Queen Elizabeth wondered, dropping her royal head into her royal hands of royal royalness. Royality. Why does spellcheck keep putting the damn red squiggle there.

"Well...maybe...I could help you fellas out..." uttered Romney who had been standing in the darkest of corners the entire time.

Royalty. That's the word.

The advisor straightened her glasses. "What could you possibly mean?"

"Well...perhaps... _I_ could give the speech?" He bit his nonexistent lip in fear. He knew that he could get beheaded for such a suggestion.

The Queen stood up, alarm showing on her wrinkly face. She gave a pointed look at the other women in the room, who responded with similar expressions. "Let's huddle up girls," she said after a moment.

They did as told and came together, whispering loudly and occasionally poking one of their well-coiffed heads out of the circle. Then, with a tone of finality, Advisor Smith muttered, "Well, that'll do." With that, the group disbanded, each of their hands on their hips.

"Mm, whatcha say?" Mitchell sung, sweat already rolling down his much too large forehead.

"We have decided, Mitt Romney," The Queen articulated each syllable. "That, as we are more desperate than ever before, you will have to give the opening speech at today's ceremony..."

Mitt's eyes widened as he reached out for something, anything, to hold him up, as he suddenly felt faint. "My god..." He lifted his other hand to his mouth. "I can't believe this...I won't let you down.mp3!"

Michelle scoffed. "We would hope not."

"Man...I could just kiss all of you!" He saw Michelle's raised eyebrow and Advisor Smith's scowl. "But, I won't!" He turned to Sam. "Man, this is so exciting! Hug me, brother!"

"First of all," he began, sliding down his eye-patch (injuries tend to happen when you're out partying with three drunk politicians and a dumbass wannabe with the face of a lizard) to give Mitt a squinty look. "I'm not your brother. Second of all, I actually have to leave to see my _real_ brother who just arrived in town. I'll meet you folks at the ceremony, aight?" He focused his sight on the advisor. "Please don't allow this gremlin to fuck up."

"Of course not," Madame Smith responded. "Tell Peter I said hello."

Sam saluted a goodbye, and exited the suite, leaving the ladies to deal with a way too eager Mitt and a half-dead heap of United States administration.

The Queen laid herself down onto the queen-sized (( ͡° ͜ʖ͡°)) bed. "This is a disaster. And, on top of all this, I still haven't been able to tell the boys about..." She cast a nervous look towards Mitt. "The other thing."

"What other thing?!" The ugly surged forward. "Maybe I can help with that, too!"

"Fuck no," Hillary intervened. "Your greasy, sweaty, sticky ass hands are going nowhere near this mess."

"What mess?!"

Michelle sighed. "We might as well tell him..."

The Queen frowned, but appeared to agree. "Fine. Well...it seems that when we left the palace--"

"The one in England?" Mitt interjected.

"No, the one up your ass." Mitt stayed silent. "When we left, we apparently got a...stow-away."

Mitt put his aforementioned disgusting hands to his chin. "What do you mean? Was it a spy?" 

Elizabeth shook her head. "Worse. Much worse."

Michelle took out her laptop and passed it to Mitt. The CNN website glowed on the screen, the headline "ROYAL BABY MISSING FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE" written in big, blocky letters at the top. Mitty's jaw dropped.

"Little George hitched a ride on the plane, and now, well...we can't find him." The Alpha Obama admitted.

"You're telling me that the most famous tater tot in the world is AWOL?!"

"Yes," Advisor answered, facing the window. "Prince George could be anywhere in Russia right now. No one can know. Lord knows what would happen if any old dumpster wench knew that they could receive quite the pretty pence if they managed to get their hands on him." She turned to face the rest of the room. "That's why we're doing a private search. The media is to know _nothing_ about this, you hear me, Romney? They. Can. Know. Nothing." She accented each point with a finger to his chest.

"Don't worry! I once was able to keep a secret for a whole twenty-five years! Hell, I still haven't told it."

Hillary smirked. "What was the secret?"

"Well, turns out that my fifth wife actually--hold up! Hold the fuck up! You almost got me there, Hill!"

"Don't call me 'Hill'."

"M'kay, Hill. So, when do we start the search?"

"Not until after the ceremony. I'd get prepared if I were you," advised The Queen. Mitt snapped his fingers and winked, which almost made Elizabeth II vomit. He made his way towards the bathroom before tripping over Barack and Joe.

He groaned. "I--I think I just sprained my ankle..."

Michelle slapped both of her hands to her face. "Kill us all."

* * *

Rinko woke up on a bed the size of a small elephant and a headache as equally large. 

She sat up slowly, massaging her temple and letting out a low groan. _Where am I?_ she wondered. She was still in the short blue dress she'd worn to Simon's turn-up function the night before, and her shoes were resting on the ground next to her; judging by the fact that they were actually sitting upright, she guessed it probably wasn't her who put them there.

Oh, Idris damn it, the function. She remembered getting as lost as she was drunk in the mass of bodies, almost landing on her ass, and being caught by—

"Shit," she breathed, just as Zoe Saldana stuck her head into the room with a genial smile and a mug of coffee.

"Good morning," Zoe said, and she brandished the mug. "Here. For you."

Rinko meant to say thanks, but what came out instead was "Where am I?"

"You passed out on me before I could drive you home last night, so I took you back to my place," Zoe explained, still smiling, before tossing a small duffel bag at Rinko. "R Kelly sent these over."

Rinko set her mug of coffee on the bedside table and peered inside the bag; it contained the official uniform for Idris Elba's worshippers to wear during the Opening Ceremony. Speaking of which...

Zoe seemed to notice how pale Rinko suddenly got. "We're not late," she said, "But get dressed quickly, because a taxi's going to pick you, me, and Jas up in half an hour." With another reassuring smile, Zoe turned and left the room and closed the door behind her.

It wasn't until Zoe's footsteps faded down the hall of the luxurious hotel room that Rinko allowed herself a little giggle that was part giddiness and part mortification. She had passed out on Zoe Saldana and spent the night in her bed, oh my Idris. But she also _passed out on Zoe Saldana and spent the night in her bed_.

She should do these Olympics things more often.

* * *

Aaron Tveit and George Blagden never made it to Simon Cowell's function the night before.

(Nothing ominous happened, though. That sentence wasn't very clear.)

It turned out Pharrell's GPS wasn't working either ("Damn communist airwaves,") and he was pretty lost without it, so the trio spent the entire night driving around through Russian streets and boulevards with nothing but a "Best Hits of Pharrell Williams" CD to keep them company. Pharrell wouldn't even stop to let George make a coffee run. Eventually they found their way back to Hotel Rwanda, but not until Simon's function was undoubtedly over and Pharrell had made them clap along to "Happy" at least a dozen times. Needless to say, neither of the, felt like a room without a roof at the end of the night.

At least Pharrell had autographed two of his Best Hits CDs for Aaron and George for free. Not that they had asked him to. Or even wanted him to.

"He probably did that on purpose," Aaron grumbled the next morning as he and George pulled on their Chiwetel-sanctioned uniform jackets in preparation for the Opening Ceremony. "Making us miss the party, I mean."

George, still half asleep and his head a wild mass of curls, blinked sleepily at Aaron. "Why?" He probably looks so cute when he first wakes up. FUCK George Blagden for being so cute tbh.

Aaron zipped up the jacket all the way, smoothing his hair back. He frowned. "To make us look bad. Or something. I don't trust him," he finished.

"You just don't like his hat," George said with a touch of affection in his voice, and Aaron rolled his eyes. His feelings regarding the hat were a moot point.

"Speaking of the hat, what do you think he keeps under it?" Aaron mused, politely turning his back as he waited for George to change. If he was just searching desperately for something to think of other than the fact that George was probably at least partially naked behind him, well. So sue him.

"Secrets," George deadpanned. "That's why it's so big." He bumped Aaron not ungently with his shoulder as he walked out the door, fully dressed in the (truthfully awful and gaudy) required uniform. "Now let's go, I want to inject myself with enough caffeine to drug an army before the Ceremony."

* * *

"Sammy," Peter Dinklage called into yet another vacant room. "Sam?! God, where is that ol' lug." He shook his head, small smile on his luscious lips. He hadn't seen his half-brother in over three weeks with his whole business with the Queen. But, now that Pete had managed to get himself a job as Advisor Smith's assistant, he could spend some much needed quality time with his favorite brother from another mother (or father, technically).

"Petey? Is that you?! Where the hell have you been ya sight for sore eyes?!" Sam cried, lunging at his cinnamon apple.

The brothers embraced, before they began to tussle playfully. It ended with a fit of giggles and their arms still around each other. The two had always been close, and skyped every other week. Though their respective acting careers often got in the way of some bonding time, they never went more than a month without being in some sort of contact with each other.

"Where are those wacky kids of yours, Sammy?" Peter asked with a dinkle to his eye.

"Oh, I keep forgetting that they haven't seen you in a while! Let's see if those youngsters are still around..." The older sibling released his egg and looked around. The hotel lobby was practically empty, which was unusual for that time of the day.

"Son! Daughter! I know y'all are out there somewhere! Get your disrespectful asses here immediately!"

Mindy Kaling and Drake popped up from behind the reception desk where they had been planning their usual teenage shenanigans (despite being grown ass adults) and the wreaking of havoc across the suites of Hotel Rwanda. They both frowned after sharing an unamused look with each other. What could poppa possibly want now?

They trudged over to their father before noticing the shorter, whiter man next to him. "Uncle Pete! Uncle Pete!" They shouted before breaking out into a ran, nearly knocking the man over. Peter just laughed, ruffling the youngsters' hair.

"How have you trouble-makers been? Giving your old man any trouble?"

Mindy twirled a strand of her hair. "No, I cannot say we have caused any trouble, Uncle P."

Samuel made a "pssh" sound. "Bullshit! Just yesterday you filled all the elevators with those huge aerobics balls and sent them to random floors to maim people with! Do you think I _like_ the manager calling me in the middle of my snoozing every night to tell me my badass kids have gotten me another lawsuit?"

"I do not recall doing that," Drake said, pointedly looking at everything but his father.

Sam cocked his head, but decided against punishing the kids right then and there. "Get out of my sight before I kick your asses to the night you were conceived." The children, in fear, scampered away, giving one last wave to their uncle before disappearing.

"Aw, you don't have to be so hard on the kiddies, they're just, like, how old are they again?" Peter asked, lightly punching Sam in his arm.

"They're literally 35 and 28, they are not kiddies."

"But, they are in your heart, aren't they?" He pressed a finger to his broseph's chest. A light smile broke out on Sammy's face.

"I missed your aggravating ass, Pete." He said as he put Peter into a headlock, and started down the hall to the hotel café.

"I missed you too, man."

By the time they made it outside of the café, there was a loud crash and two adult "Sorry!"'s. Peter ducked his head and coughed, ignoring the murderous look on his sibling's face. "They'll, grow out of it."

"I should've gotten drunker last night..." Sam noted as he leaned against the door.

Peter clasped his hands together. "What do you say to us blowing this joint and getting a couple beers at this place a few blocks away?"

Sam considered the offer for a moment. "Alright. But, not too many. We're both on guard duty for the Queen, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, let's go!" The younger man grabbed his hand and they sped out of the doors of Hotel Rwanda. _Maybe Barack had been right last night_ , Sam thought. _The bear truly is loose_.

* * *

Ludacris pounded on the bathroom door of the League's extra-large hotel suite, fuming with barely-concealed impatience. He didn't have time for this. He  _really_ didn't have time for this. "Hurry the _fuck_ up, asshole," he complained. "You're going to miss your big gay Olympics date."

Zachary emerged from the bathroom a second later, running a hand through his product-slicked hair and looking incredibly flustered. "Look at it," he said, thrusting his iPhone out at Ludacris. "What does it mean. _What does it mean_."

The text Chris had sent the previous night was pulled up on it. "I turned my phone on and got _that_ ," Zach said frantically, nervously smoothing and unsmoothing his hair until it began to look like a small dog's fur. (It was a far cry from the look he usually went for, which was usually somewhere between Artfully Tousled and Artfully Gelled.) Ludacris examined Zach's phone for a solid minute before snickering loudly.

"Oh my god, you have the kissy face emoji next to his name. That's so fucking  _gay_ ," he said gleefully, and Zach made a strangled hissing noise.

"That's not the point. That's not the point. He," he was blushing furiously, "he thinks I'm cute?"

Cuba appeared at Ludacris's side looking equally irritated as Ludacris. "The hell's taking you so long?" he said to Zach. "Terrence is hogging the other bathroom and I really need to—"

"He was jacking off to a sext from his bf," Ludacris said.

Cuba nodded, unphased. "Was it a nude?"

Ludacris said "Yes" at the same time Zachary threw his phone at Cuba. "Screw you, you guys are assholes," Zach said grumpily. A horrified look crossed his face. "Jesus. Jesus, he told me he didn't remember anything the party. Which means he doesn't remember the text. How am I supposed to face a man who doesn't remember calling me cute?"

"Probably not with your hair like that," Cuba remarked mildly, gesturing to Zach's head.

Zach stormed out of the hotel room.

Then stormed back in a second later. "I forgot my phone," he said, snatching it from Cuba's hand, stuffing it in his pocket, and re-storming back out.

* * *

"Shawnathan," Bey groaned, strutting out of the Master Bathroom of the Master Bedroom of the Master Suite on the top floor of Hotel Rwanda. "Last night was so crazy. Luckily for me, I have the grace of god to not get hangovers. How are you?"

An arm appeared from underneath the bed. "I...I am slayed," wheezed Jay. Beyoncé chuckled, stepping her high heels on top her husbands flesh. He welcomed the stabbing sensation.

It wasn't until she was by her vanity that she realized, "Shit. Where's Blue?!"

Memewhile, Kim Kardashian-West was applying an appropriate amount of eyeliner to her smoldering eyes while looking in the bathroom mirror of her suite down the hall. God knows where her husband was. Once she was finished she grabbed her phone and dialed his number, putting it on speaker once she was finished. Why does she always use speaker. I mean this author has just started watching this season of KUWTK and she never seems to not use speaker. Kim, why.

"Babe?" She prompted once she heard the click. "Where are you? And," she looked around the empty room. An abandoned golden bib was strewn over a chair. "Where's Nori?!"

Ye laughed over the line. "Quit your worrying, baby girl's with..." There was a shuffling sound. "Uh. You sure she's not in the room?"

"Oh my god. We lost her. We lost our child. Khloe is going to have a field day with this." I hope I'm thinking of the right sister. I'm probably not.

"Don't worry about it," there was a scream in the background. "She's bound 2 be fine."

"She's a year old, honey."

"Exactly," The screaming had been replaced by weeping.

Kimothy ran a hand through her hair. "I guess your right...where are you?"

"*You're," Kanye corrected. "I'm alright. Just fighting off this black skinhead that looks an awful lot like Pharrell." A faint, "I _am_ Pharrell!" sounded before another sob. "North will grow stronger from this experience."

"Okay," she began flipping through an adoption catalogue (see I told you I've been watching), suddenly bored. "And, babe?"

"[Haahn](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-0Z681OSWYw&list=LL3DgrKn9QzLMaTggAk_GUNQ)?!"

"Be safe!"

"I know all about being safe! Did you know, I once wrestled with Chaka Khan for--" there was a clang. "Stay back! Back I say!" And, with that, the line was cut.

Kim shrugged and pulled out her phone. Time to play Kim Kardashian Hollywood.

* * *

 

Chris and Sebastian's taxi drive to the Ceremony was a little uncomfortable, to say the least. There was an air of "I Got Drunk and Almost Grinded On You Last Night and Then We Accidentally Fell Asleep in the Same Bed" about the cramped cab. There was also a slightly more one-sided air that Sebastian _really_ hoped Chris didn't pick up on of "Right After I Ran Off After Getting Drunk and Almost Grinding On You I May Have Given Anthony Mackie A Blowjob Because He Pitied Me". This was probably because that is actually what happened. Sebastian wasn't sure whether it was a good thing that he was used to this kind of stuff by now. Including the blowjob part. Especially the blowjob part.

A few more more minutes passed before Sebastian couldn't take it anymore. "Do we know our competition yet?" He said, in an attempt to diffuse the silence. Chris looked #grateful for the distraction.

"Johansson and Stone," Chris said. "'Scarlett Letter', under Neeson."

Sebastian nodded. "Tough team." They lapsed into silence again, and Sebastian fidgeted a bit in his seat. He was on the verge of pulling out his phone and sending Mackie a text (that would've fallen somewhere between "haha remember when i blew you last night" and just a long string of various emojis) just to have something to do when the taxi finally pulled up at the Olympics stadium.

"Showtime," Chris said, and they got out of the taxi without another word.

* * *

The hour that everyone had been waiting for had finally come to Sochi residents, athletes, tourists, and fans alike. It was finally time for the Opening Ceremony. It was finally time for the games that would determine who was the gayest, truest, most loyal worshipper of them all.

As fans continued to stream into the covered stadium that had been erected specially for this exciting, homosexual occasion, news teams readied themselves and waited strategically among the stands to get full coverage. There was a palpable buzz of anticipation everywhere; it even managed to somehow overpower the usually indomitable air of communism.

“Can you believe this crowd?” rapper-turned Grammy’s host-turned part time DJ-turned Olympics host LL Cool J asked his fellow announcers, Ryan Seacrest and Stanley Tucci. “This is even wilder than Simon’s functions!”

“Every function is wilder than Simon’s,” Stanley Tucci pointed out. “Just because that’s literally the only one you’ve been invited to--”

“Now, fellas,” Ryan Seacrest chuckled warmly, slapping a hand on each of their backs companionably. “No fighting! We’re a team here.”

“Whatever you say,” Stanley sighed, taking a swig of a flask that he pulled seemingly out of nowhere. “Let’s just get this bullshit over with.”

Ryan looked at him disapprovingly, but turned on his microphone and proceeded anyway. “Goood morning Sochi!” the _American Idol_ host boomed, voice echoing throughout the stadium, and a round of tumulous cheers and applause met him in response. “Who’s ready for some Olympics?” As more cheers met Ryan in response, LL Cool J eagerly tried to hop in with a crowd-rousing statement of his own, only to discover that someone had cut his microphone. He sighed, and licked his lips in a resigned fashion. This was _so_ not (ll) cool (j).

“I’m here with my pals LL and Stan--I can call you Stan, right, Stanley?” Ryan said with a laugh, reaching out to sling an arm around Stanley.

Stanley took another swig of his flask. “No,” he said.

“That Stan, such a kidder!” Ryan chuckled, and the crowd echoed his chuckle. Stanley looked at him incredulously.

“What the fuck did you just fucking call me, you little bitch?” Stanley said, “I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with calling me shit nicknames like that on TV? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and you’re being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little ‘clever’ nickname was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you,” he poked Ryan in the chest, “and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.”

He dropped the microphone and walked out.

“ _Okay_ ,” Ryan said after a few moments of confused, stunned silence. His bemused expression was quickly replaced with his usual bright, winning, (fake) smile. “On that note--”

LL Cool J, spotting Stanley’s microphone lying forgotten on the ground, took the chance and seized it in a flash. “Let’s give a warm welcome to--!” he began hurriedly, just as that microphone cut off too. He sighed. It seemed his dream of hosting the Olympics would never come true.

“Let’s give a warm welcome to the opening act of this year’s winter Olympics,” Ryan exclaimed, as though LL hadn’t been about to say the same exact thing literally seconds before. “The one, the only, the Owl Jolson!”

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight zoomed in on a stage that had just risen in the center of the stadium, where a [little cartoon owl](http://kaufmantoldmesettheworldonfire.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/16dvd3_650.jpg) stood proudly and confidently. The band struck up a happy little tune, and Owl began to sing [a beautiful, majestic song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zj1FifK3bbg). It was so beautiful, in fact, that several members of the audience converted to Christianity right there on the spot, belief in Jesus so restored. Many more fainted. In fact, there wasn’t a dry eye in the stadium; everyone was so incredibly moved by the beautiful, heartrending performance. That wasn’t it, though; just as the little owl finished his soul-wrenching tune and the crowd stood up to applaud, an equally little frog hopped on and began to sing as well, finishing off Owl’s beautiful song with [an equally beautiful song and dance number of his own](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49EoV50oba0).

The applause was deafening; even Ryan, who never shut up, seemed at a loss for words he was so humbled by the performance.

“Thank you all,” Owl said, wiping away a tear or two from his own glistening eyes. “That song goes out to all you folks out there who just want to singa. Never give up on your dream.” He held the microphone out to the frog, who ribbited his agreement.

“Beautiful,” Ryan breathed into his own microphone once the applause had finally died down. “That is going to be such a tough act to follow--unless, of course, you’re Paul McCartney!”

Just as he spoke, Sir McCartney descended from the ceiling of the arena on a piano made of pure gold onto the stage, surrounded by a horde of frogs. The familiar chords to his 1976 hit [“Live and Let Die” filled the stadium, made even more beautiful by the frogs singing back-up for him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_VCPEUfvRg)

There were several more guests, each more elaborate than the last; Smash Mouth performed their hit “[All Star](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZYgIrqELFw)” and, as a homage to the movie that made that tune well-know, did it entirely dressed as pop culture icon Shrek. R Kelly literally flew into the stadium on a pair of wings he probably somehow stole from the _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ set while belting out “[I Believe I Can Fly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK2ZuescJGA)”. The entire cast of _Shark Tale_ did a musical number to “[Car Wash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K85WXXMR-aE)”, likewise dressed as their iconic characters. Lana Del Rey even remixed her hit “[National Anthem](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxDdEPED0h8)” for the occasion, focusing more on themes of communism and the glory of Soviet Russia and renaming it “Socialist Anthem”--causing an extremely excited Ludacris to scream himself hoarse with ecstasy in the process.

There were only two acts left to go; a surprise one to end the music set, and right before it…

No one cheered louder than Simon Cowell when One Direction themselves stepped out onto the center stage, wearing matching barbershop quartet--or, more accurately, quintet--uniforms and singing the 1954 hit “[Mr. Sandman](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNuX7bs2qAM)” in perfect harmony.

“ _Bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum_ …”

“These tunes…………………………………………….” Simon Cowell whispered, wiping away a stray tear from his eye. “They...they bring a smile to my soul.” He couldn’t believe it. The boys he had given birth to through the miracle of mpreg, the boys he had raised since infancy, the boys he loved more than life itself were performing at the Olympics. The _Olympics_. They had risen so far since exiting Simon’s orifice those whole twelve years ago. To his left, Janet Jackson began to sob uncontrollably--whether over the pure beauty of Harry, Louis, Zayn, Niall, and Liam singing or her still-present feelings for her ex-lover Zayn, Simon didn’t know or actually care.

He needed to share in this moment with someone; and who better to than his oldest friend and former _American Idol_ co-star Randy Jackson? He nudged Randy and turned his glistening orbital regions to him.

“Isn’t it breathtaking?” Simon said in a hushed, reverent tone. “My boys…...my sons……….,,,,.,.”

Randy nodded, looking a little distracted. Simon couldn’t figure him out; Randy had been so happy and carefree the previous night at the function. “Are you okay, Rands?” Simon said, momentarily forgetting all about his boys to give Randy a concerned look. “You’ve been acting weird since you and Dwayne skipped out early on my party.” Which hurt, though Simon would never admit to it. _It's like those friendship bracelets we made back in December '03 mean nothing._

"Ho ho—I mean, haha," Randy laughed nervously. "I'm fine, dawg, don't worry."

Simon nodded, though clearly still unconvinced, and turned his attention back to the stage, where Zayn, Harry, Louis, Niall, and Liam were just finishing up their performance with a final drawn out " _dream_ ". All his previous worries immediately forgotten in the heavenly chorus, Simon clapped loudest of all (Janet Jackson, alternating between that and sobbing, only second to him).

One Direction was just beginning to bow in acknowledgement of their stellar performance when, suddenly, the stadium was plunged into darkness in a scenario similar to that of the Superbowl Halftime Show Blackout of 2k13. Only, this time, instead of Beyonce appearing in a burst of heavenly light, an eerie mist filled the arena instead; One Direction had fucking vanished, and a platform was rising slowly up on the stage. It was carrying a lone figure shrouded in the haze, its head bowed and its shoulders oddly bulky as though it was wearing a large coat. No one dared speak. Was it Jay-Z? Was it Freddie Mercury risen from the dead, like Joe Biden had suspected earlier?

“ _What what what what what what what_ ,” a voice whispered, amplified by a microphone. The spotlight flashed on, and everyone gasped simultaneously.

It was……………………………………………………………………………….……..Macklemore.

The spectators began to cheer wildly yet again as the infamous white rapper began to sing his summer 2013 hit, “[Thrift Shop](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK8mJJJvaes)”, with Ryan Lewis (the dog) playing the sax accompaniment on his tiny dog-sized saxophone. Everyone cheered except for a certain few, that is.

“This is it, gang!” Terrence Howard shouted over the din, eyes alight with a fiery passion. He couldn’t believe it; weeks and months of searching for Macklemore, and he showed up right under their noses. This could be it. This could be the League’s chance to take Macklemore down once and for all. This could be their _only_ chance to take him down once and for all. “His ass is _ours_!”

Cuba, Ben, and Ludacris (who was still wearing his _I <3 Lana_ shirt, heart-shaped sunglasses, and flower crown) didn’t have to be told twice, and they shoved their way through the crowd of bodies towards the stage. Further down the row, Terrence could see that Zachary had gotten the message; he had already jumped up from his seat with his _Star Trek_ buddies and was sprinting down the aisle to meet the rest of the League with Chris Pine trailing behind him.

“We’re not gonna get there in time!” Cuba shouted when Terrence got close enough to hear him. “Too many goddamn _people_!”

“Wait!” Chris Pine exclaimed, whipping off his sunglasses yet again. His beautiful anime-esque eyes still managed to sparkle despite the fact there was literally no fucking light anywhere. “I have an idea!”

And, suddenly, he grabbed Zach around the waist and dipped him bridal style. “Just pretend I’m a really hot twink or something,” he told a stunned Zach, before kissing him passionately.

Whatever Chris had been trying to achieve, it worked. The crowd in the near vicinity broke out into whoops and loud shrill screams of excitement over the beautiful love scene playing before them, pausing their Macklemore-induced moshing just long enough for Terrence, Ben, Cuba, and Ludacris to find an opening and sprint the rest of the way to the center stage.

“KirkSpock IS canon!” a teenage girl yelled. 

“Macklemore did it again!” someone else yelled. “He brought them together with the power of his beautiful gay magic! What a guy!”

“Go! Go! Go!” Terrence chanted. The stage was right in front of them. Just a few more feet, and they could use the Four-Point Attack-le they’d been working on for months and Macklemore would be theirs.

“Now!” Ben shouted. The four of them jumped onto the stage towards Macklemore just as Macklemore rapped the last line of the song, and several things happened at once. Ben grabbed onto Macklemore’s overcoat; Macklemore yelled “Now, boy!” to Ryan Lewis; and a puff of smoke blinded the entire League.

When it cleared, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis were gone. All that remained was the coat, still clutched futilely in Ben’s hand. “Is that your grandma’s coat?” a strange, disembodied voice whispered in Ben’s ear, just before the lights flashed back on in the stadium and the crowd burst out into applause again.

“What a guy!” Ryan Seacrest was saying, microphone turned back on. “Such _talent_!” He wiped his eyes.

Terrence wiped his eyes for an entirely different reason. “We were so…..close……” he whispered, staring at the coat in Ben’s hand. “So…...close……” Ben’s own eyes stung with tears that he refused to let fall.

“Next time, ‘Rance,” he said. He, Ludacris, and Cuba escorted Terrence off the stage, which was slowly starting to descend back into the ground and become level now that the musical acts were over. “We’ll get him next time.”

Meanwhile, Chris Pine released a very confused and slightly aroused Zachary Quinto, looking apologetic. “Sorry,” he said, “Only good distraction I could think of.”

“Yeah,” Zach said, voice a few octaves higher.

Chris looked at him for a few minutes, frowning as though in thought. “Hey, babe,” he said, reaching out and squeezing Zach’s hand. Zach’s heart leapt; maybe Chris’s text _had_ meant something. Maybe the kiss did too. Maybe Zach would have to quit the I Have A (Probably) Unrequited Gay Crush On My Co-Star Support Group after all. “Forget dinner with the _Star Trek_ squad,” Chris continued, “Let’s go out to--”

“Zach!” Ludacris shouted, furiously shoving his way back through the crowd to get to them. Terrence, Ben, and Cuba followed not far behind him. “Macklemore got away, but look what we found in the pocket of his coat!” He waved a planner violently in Zach’s face, pointing at the space for that day; written in sparkly purple ink were the words _10 pm tonight: Club G!ay_.

“His calling card was his downfall,” Ben said excitedly. “Whatever he’s doing there, he’ll never see us coming!”

Chris let go of Zach’s hand quickly (Zach almost cried), squinting at the book. “Hey Zach,” he said after a few moments, sliding his sunglasses back on and shooting his _Star Trek_ co-star a smirk. “Feel like going out for a drink tonight?” Cuba and Ludacris whooped in unison, and Terrence gave the League and Chris a fond smile.

“Well, gang,” said Terrence. “Looks like we’ve got another mystery on our hands.”

* * *

Mitt took a deep breath, which was probably a bad idea seeing as he was standing right outside of the bathroom of the stadium. He coughed a few times, then shook it off. Nothing would ruin this.

He heard his introduction coming from the only vaguely annoying voice of Ryan Seacrest. Gee, _the_ Ryan Seacrest knew his name. Even if it was just being read off a teleprompter. It still totally counted.

He marched up to the stage, waving at people who either didn't recognize him, were too filled with excitement for the next performance, or just plain wanted his body on a skewer to care. He smiled anyway, knowing that this was his moment. The only thing that could mess this up was himself.

He was fucked.

He tapped the microphone, hearing the low "thump" from the speakers from above. He cleared his throat, licked his dry lips, and croaked, "Hello, all. I am Mitt Romney. Who's pumped for the Sochi Olympics?!" No one cheered. What was going on? His microphone was on, so it couldn't have been that. He looked up at the jumbo screen. _Shark Tale_ was being broadcasted to the masses instead of his hideous face. Everyone must've still been pretty amped after the cast's "Car Wash" rendition. Mitt growled. Why wasn't the attention on him?!

He ripped the mic off the stand and stomped to the edge of the stage. "Listen to me you little fucks! I'm here to welcome you to the goddamn Olympics. Do you know how big of a deal that is?" They were still watching the movie. In the film's defense, it was on the seahorse race scene. Poor Lucky Day.

"Fuck all of you! You'd listen to me if I told you about--" No, no he couldn't tell them about the royal baby. He had sworn to the advisor. He gulped, and looked up at the diamond box that she and the others were watching in. He glared, for even they were watching the movie instead. _Screw promises_.

"Everyone! I have a big announcement! It could get you lots of money!" Everyone's eyes were immediately on him. _That's more like it_. "I just want you all to know that there's a baby missing around these here Slavic parts. But, not just any old baby..." He paused for dramatic effect. "The royal baby, Prince George. He's been missing for a week now. The Queen is offering, like, a bajillion bucks to whoever can find the brat. Toodles!" Before he could scamper off the stage, he placed the mic back on the stand and yelled, "Just remember ya boy Mitt Romney sent'cha!" And ran through the crowd, as far away from the currently livid Queen as he could.

The crowd was restless. People climbed onto the stage, holding up their spawn and saying that it was George. Others banged on the royal box, terrifying the faint of heart queen. "What are we going to do?" She asked her advisor. "Should we call Michelle and Hillary?"

"No, their hands are probably full with the boys. Where the hell is Sam?" She scrambled around the box, trying her hardest to push the rabid royal family stans back.

Patrick Stewart looked on with hungry eyes at the display below him. It was almost time.

He rested a delicate hand atop his lover's, a sign of reassurance for what was to come. They'd waited much too long for their next strike. They couldn't have chosen a better time.

"Do it," Patrick whispered, gazing longingly across the stadium where his potential son, Evan Peters, was sitting. The youth caught his eye and waved with a boyish grin, causing the elder to clutch his heart. It was too much. He needed his child.

Ian reached into his coat to retrieve the sleek, black remote. On it was a bright red button that would seal their fate with the son they deserved. He passed his husband a large, fluffy pair of earmuffs, knowing that the sound of the explosion was most likely going to set Patrick's hearing aid off. The other man accepted it gratefully.

Ian rolled the remote around in his hands for a moment, before closing his eyes and clicking it. With that, there was...nothing. His eyebrows furrowed and he opened his eyes, even standing up to get a better look at the still intact box holding a still alive queen. "Uh, I don't understand."

"Press it again! Quick, before someone gains suspicion!" said Patrick, who slid down in his seat. Ian pressed the button again, but to no avail. "Did you put the batteries in it like I told you to?"

"Yes! I put them in this morning! I don't know what's happening!" He flipped the device over. "Oh, I didn't turn it on." He gave a sheepish grin to Patrick, who grunted and sat back up. Ian pressed the button, and leaned forward.

The box began to shake, tossing the stans off of it and causing the spectators who had been minding their business below to fall off of their chairs and to the bottom of the stands. The Advisor hugged the Queen close to her as they kneeled on the floor, shielding both of their heads from the falling debris. Then, as if a button had never been pressed at all, the quaking stopped. Advisor Smith surveyed the area, assisted Elizabeth in standing back up, and rushed the two of them out of the box and to a helicopter being flown by Sam Jackson. They climbed the ladder, and with that, they were gone.

Ian's mouth fell agape. He took a chance look at Patrick, who was shaking. "Darling, it's alright. There's always next time."

Patrick threw off his earmuffs, hitting some random kid in the head. "Next time? I can't wait until next time! I need my son _now_! I don't know how that sea urchin keeps managing to evade our grasp, but I am becoming sick of it!" He swatted away Ian's comforting hand. "We need more..."

Ian, though slightly hurt from the rejection, pondered. "Didn't we get the president to cease protection of the Queen?" Patrick nodded stiffly. "Well, maybe that's what we need. Someone on the inside to help us take her down."

Patrick stopped shaking. "You're right! Oh, Ian, you genius you!" He kissed him, but like in an old people kinda way, so don't get too excited. "Mr. President is our key into ensuring the Queen's murder. Success is on the horizon, my love!"

Ian glowed. He could see it now, the family dinners, the shitty vacations to Nebraska, _the Christmas cards_. With the Queen gone, they could all be together.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

After the excitement of the opening musical acts, Romney’s unintentionally rousing speech, and the fact that someone tried to fucking assassinate the Queen, the following ceremony seemed almost tame. Ballerinas danced to the tune of the Beatles’ “ [Back in the USSR](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHD5nd3QLTg) ”, played by Paul McCartney via piano for no reason other than that he enjoyed playing at the London Olympics in 2012 so much that no one had the heart to turn him down when he asked for a reprise. An effigy of Joseph McCarthy was burned on a stake. A man cosplaying Russia from the popular anime  _Hetalia_ recited the communist manifesto over the loudspeaker. A pool filled entirely with vodka was wheeled out and girls dressed as Russian nesting dolls did backdives off the side into it. The roof of the stadium was opened up to allow real, authentic Russian snow to fall on the spectators which was less of a planned event and more of a spur-of-the-moment ploy for venders in the stands to sell sweatshirts emblazoned with “Live Socialist Or Die Hard”. There was even an interpretive dance of the Cold War that lasted two hours and brought Vladimir Putin to tears. His tears quickly evaporated when, in the grand finale of it all, the fifth Olympic ring of the lighted display appeared to be MIA and had evidently been stolen and he had to make several calls to find out who he would have to exile.

Even with the slip-up, though, it was truly one of the most beautiful, most Russian things ever.

“That was truly one of the most beautiful, most Russian things ever,” Ryan Seacrest boomed once the crowd had finally calmed down enough. To his left, LL Cool J contemplated how he could get the mike away from Ryan without being noticed. “But now,” he continued, “it’s time to meet the athletes!”

A pair of doors in the front of the stadium swung open and the [Boney M hit “Rasputin”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvDMlk3kSYg) began to blare over the loudspeakers as the teams began to walk out, waving happily and wearing their respective god’s colors.

Bill Murray, Tom Hanks, Russell Crowe, Pharrell, Pharrell’s hat, Scarlett Johansson, and Emma Stone all walked out under the banner for Liam Neeson; Lupita, Aaron Tveit, George Blagden, Lucy Liu, Nicole Beharie, Shaq O’Neale, Michael Jordan, Lebron James, and Brendan Fraser all walked out for Chiwetel; Justin Timberlake, Peyton Manning, Jimmy Fallon, Don Cheadle, Steve Harvey, Chris Evans, Sebastian Stan, and Rinko Kikuchi for Idris Elba; and finally, Team NBC, Michael Meyers, Eddie Murphey, Antonio Banderas, Jasika Nicole, Zoe Saldana, and Hugh Jackman walked out for Oprah. There were many more, of course, but everyone else is pretty much irrelevant.

And on that note, the opening ceremony had finally come to a close...................................................……………………...………………………...but the gays had just begun.

* * *

Practice for the Bronze Duo that day had been rough. Coach Mooney made them go straight from the Opening Ceremony to the rink and had pushed them harder than he ever had before, shouting at them for the smallest mistakes and making Steve redo his lutz three times before he deemed it up to par. It was expected, though; it took a lot of time and money for Coach Mooney to rent out the ice skating rink for just one private practice, especially with just a few days left until the actual games began.

When he finally let them go, Don’s feet were aching and Steve had to rush off or he’d be late for “something” (he refused to tell Don what it was) and Don wanted nothing more than to take a long shower in the locker room.

He was just beginning to strip out of his skating gear and put it into his locker when suddenly a voice said “Knock knock!” behind him. Don whirled around, half in surprise and half in fear, and was met with the squinty, smug, face of a one James Franco.

“James!” Don squeaked, covering his chest with a shirt. James was leaning languidly against the locker room door, smirking as he usually was. I don’t think that man is never not smirking. Is his face stuck like that. Does he need help.  Someone Help James Franco Unstick His Face 2k14.

“Get dressed,” said James, as though Don wasn’t literally trying to do just that. “I am taking _you_ out for coffee.”

Don was flattered. And little creeped out, because he was pretty sure he’d locked the locker room door. But he was mostly flattered. After their turning-up at Simon Cowell’s the night before, he thought he might have a real chance with James; they’d spent most of the night laughing and drinking together, and James had even dragged him out on the dance floor at one point to dance to the [Cher hit, “Believe”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Uu3kCEEc98), which James sang along beautifully to. When Steve finally dragged him back to Hotel Rwanda so they could get enough sleep for the ceremony, James had hugged him for an extra long time. _What a man,_ Don thought privately.

He smiled bashfully at James, nodding. “Sounds great,” he said.

10 minutes later, James’s vibrant white Volvo station wagon--he insisted on driving--was pulling into the parking lot of the Czarbucks (“In Soviet Russia, coffee makes you!”) down the road from Hotel Rwanda.

“Just so you know,” James told Don seriously once they’d parked, “I’m totally against this chain coffee shop bullshit. Czarbucks can suck my ass. Down with capitalism, and whatever. We’re only here because the only other coffee place is Soviet Brewnion and they over-grind their beans.” Getting out of the car, he grabbed his Czarbucks Loyalty Card, his reusable Czarbucks coffee cup, and zipped his Czarbucks windbreaker up against the chilly winter air.

Don wisely didn’t say anything.

“So,” James said, once they were seated in the shop with their lattes in hand. He took a sip of his, closing his eyes as he savored the taste of limited-edition Communist Brulée. “How do you like Sochi so far?”

Don shrugged. He eyed his own drink warily; the staff had somehow managed to misspell “Don” as “Jon”, and he didn’t like the sound of Socialist Spice. “It’s pretty great. Cold, though,” he said, wincing at himself immediately afterwards. “I mean, of course it’s cold.”

James laughed loudly, shaking his head fondly as though Don had just told the funniest joke in the world. “You’re so funny,” he said, reaching across the table to cover Don’s hand with his own. He smiled warmly. “That’s my favorite thing about you.” Don looked down at the table, trying not to smile too.

Suddenly, James made a noise of surprise. “‘Jon’!” he exclaimed, using his free hand to point to Don’s cup.

“Yeah.” Don nodded, brow creasing. “They spelled my name wrong.”

“No,” James said, smiling again. “Jon, like James and Don. _Jon_.” He squeezed Don’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “It’s like we’re meant to be, or something.”

Don could win a hundred gold medals or have his name spelled wrong on a hundred more coffee cups and not care, because nothing could compare to the happiness he felt in this moment.

* * *

"Jobs?"

"Hello,"

"Tyler?"

"Um? Excuse me,"

"Carrell?"

"Howdy!"

"Irwin?"

"Crikey how am I alive--"

"Martin?"

There was silence.

Stevie Wonder tore his eyes away from the clipboard in his hands. Wait. He can't see. Fuck.

"Buscemi, is Martin in here?" He asked towards the distinct scent of dank ass cannabis.

The Vice President of the Steve Club, Steve Buscemi (not to be confused with Vice President Joseph Biden), tilted his head backwards to get a better view of the back row from his pedestal, only to see no sign of the comedian. "Sorry, chief. Martin's not here."

"Oh, gosh dang it to Oprah. Alright," the musician grumbled, returning his calloused fingers to the attendance sheet. "I hope that son of a bitch from _Blue's Clues_ isn't here again."

Steve from _Blue's Clues_ (his last name is Burns...go figure) raised his hand in delight of finally being acknowledge. "I'm here! Right here!"

Stevie ignored his presence with a flip of his luxurious mane, straightening his Barack Obama patented Swagglasses™ and continuing. "Hawking?"

A semi-robotic voice answered with, "life is but an insignificant blip in the overall encompassing pattern of the universe. We are born to die, and are dying to live. It is ever so fleeting, and soon, all we know will be nothing but corpses, corpses and dust. Nothingness awaits us after death. There is no meaning to Earth, especially when it can implode any millennium now, leaving us simple lifeforms to scatter haplessly in a practically nonexistent void..."

"Thank you! :)" Stevie rubbed his fingers across the last sequence of dots. He rolled his eyes. "Where's the slave?"

Buscemi quit staring at his incredibly handsome face in his compact mirror for a second to respond with, "Moffat's out getting us snacks for the meeting."

"I thought I told him to do that an _hour_ ago?! That good-for-nothing sure is good for nothing." He shuffled some of the papers on his desk before grabbing a small gavel. "Order! I call for order!" The various Steves in the large boardroom fell silent, and stared patiently at their superior. Stevie grinned, and re-folded the neck part of his turtleneck sweater. "Welcome to the first Olympian meeting of the Steve Club, beautiful people!"

Everyone cheered, some clapping with Buscemi making the loudest noises of them all.

"I am happy to say that _most_ of us have made it to Russia in one piece. How's everyone handling the weather?" The members responded to the small-talk politely, wanting to get into the brunt of the meeting as quickly as possible. Their very lives depended on the Steve Club. "Great! Now, on today's order of business, we--"

Stevie's words were interrupted by an out of breath Stephen Moffat. Several bags of potato chips and cookies fell out of his weak arms. He keeled over into the snacks, heaving.

"Why the hell?!" The club president asked from the podium. Moffat rose a finger and rose up.

"I c-can explain, my lord, I swear." He coughed up some blood. "There's a man outside--" Steve Harvey burst through the door, knocking it against the wall. He too, was breathing hard, but looked prepared to kill.

"You wanna receive these hands, boy?! Because, it's time to feud!" He tackled the groveler and elbowed him in the face.

"Whoa! What's going on here?" Buscemi bolted towards the scuffle and attempted to separate the two. "What's going on, sir?"

Steve stopped himself from clocking Moffat in the groin once faced with the big, the bad, the Buscemi. God, with a face like that, you have to be in awe for at least a minute. Steve swallowed. "I'm here for the meeting."

Stevie stepped down and stood over the three. "I know you! You're that guy who keeps sending letters about joining the club! There's a reason I haven't been responding to them, you peanut-headed son of a bitch." He kneeled in front of Steve. "You see, I always run background checks on possible members. These guys don't make it into the club just for being named Steve, or any variations thereof. There are rigorous tests of faith and character." He took a look at the other members. "Okay, yeah, maybe most of it rides on whether or not your name's Steve, but that doesn't matter! Bottom line is, I checked you out, Harvey, and your name isn't even Steve!"

Steve started sweating profusely. "B-b-b-but, how did you--?"

"You tried to bury it under a ton of paperwork, but I found it. Your first name's Broderick, you sham. Steve's just your middle name. We only accept first names here, buckaroo. Now get your fake ass out of here."

"No!" Ste--Broderick cried as he was hoisted up but the surprisingly muscular Buscemi. "You don't understand! Being in this club is my dream! My passion! I've wanted this since I was a wee boy! I've always idolized you, Mr. Wonder! Don't do this to me!"

"Make your own club, Brody. Hey! Maybe you can call it the Broderick club!" Stevie laughed as Buscemi chucked him out of the room. The door was slammed in his face before he could re-enter.

Tears welled in his eyes. "No! No! No! I can't...please! Make an exception! I'll get you free tickets to my talk show!" He banged his fists to the door before resting his head to it in defeat. "I'm going to find a way into your club, Stevie." He wiped the snot from his nose with his embroidered handkerchief. "Even if it's the last thing I do."

* * *

If there was such thing as a knock of shame, Sebastian Stan had perfected it by now.

This was the third time he found himself knocking on the same hotel room door since they arrived in Sochi. It was the second time he found himself there with less than innocent intentions. He’d lost count of the number of times before Sochi.

Anthony Mackie opened the door after the first knock and didn’t even look phased when he saw Sebastian standing there.

“Again?” he sighed, but he gestured for Sebastian to follow him inside anyway. Sebastian did so, smiling gratefully as Anthony closed the door behind them.

“So,” he continued, folding his arms, “what is it this time? Alcohol or sex? Or are you just gonna cry again?”

“All of the above, preferably,” Sebastian said, looking sheepish. Anthony sighed again, but when Sebastian fell into his arms and kissed him hard he responded with equal fervor.

It was a familiar arrangement the two shared, born out of a drunken night at Philly Comic Con and Sebastian Stan’s inability to deal with his feelings like a normal human being. Whenever Sebastian was feeling particularly in love with Chris Evans, he’d come to Anthony for comfort; on Anthony Mackie’s part, the guy just gave really great head. Even if he did cry for a little while afterwards. He could deal with that.

“Look, Sebastian,” Anthony said, nudging Sebastian away gently, “I like you a lot, man, but you’ve gotta realize that calling it a ‘brojob’ doesn’t make this _any less gay_. At _all_.”

Sebastian made a face like a kicked puppy, pushing Anthony into a sitting position on the bed. “It’s no different than a bro hug, though,” Sebastian explained, kneeling on the floor in front of him. He unzipped Anthony’s jeans. “Bros helping out bros. No homo, and whatever.” He tugged them down, taking Anthony’s boxers with him.

“Sure,” Anthony agreed, closing his eyes and trying not to moan when Sebastian put his mouth to better use, “no homo.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in the room literally next door, Chris Hemsworth was banging a gavel against the surface of his judge desk with a stern look on his face. I don’t know how he got a judge’s desk into his hotel room. I’m not even really sure why he’s in Sochi. “I have called us, the Hot Famous Muscular Blond Chris Club, all here today,” Chris Hemsworth began in all his Australian glory, regarding the two men in front of him seriously, “to discuss a matter of great consequence.”

Chris Evans fidgeted uncomfortably. Chris Pine leaned back in his chair, looked bored.

“We are here today to review the application,” Hemsworth continued, holding up a file so Evans and Pine could see too, “of a one Christopher Pratt.” He flipped his beautiful hair over his shoulder, allowing the sunlight streaming in from the nearby window to catch it magnificently.

Immediately, Chris Pine straightened up, whipping off his sunglasses to give Hemsworth an incredulous look. “ _Pratt_?” he said, snorting derisively. “Um, no thnx. He’s, like, not even a natural blond.”

“Objection noted,” Hemsworth said, nodding and scribbling something down on the file. “Evans?”

“Hm?” Chris Evans responded after a moment, looking distracted.

“We’re talking about Pratt,” Chris Hemsworth said, frowning at him. “You alive in there? You haven’t said a thing the entire meeting.” He also forgot to bring the snacks, he added privately. Asshole couldn’t even remember to bring in the juice boxes and Nabisco snack packs when it was his turn. Some Captain America he was.

“Is this some lame-ass pining thing?” Chris Pine interjected, rolling his eyes and seemingly not recognizing the pun he had just made in regard to his name. “Because this is _not_ the ‘I Have A (Probably) Unrequited Gay Crush On My Co-Star Support Group’ support group. They meet across the hall.” He chuckled at his own joke, and, as with the Pine/pining pun, he was also unaware that a support group such as that did in fact exist and that they did indeed hold meetings in the room across the hall while in Sochi.

“It’s just--” Chris Evans began, but he was interrupted by a loud, steady banging noise from the room next door.

All three attractive Chris-es swerved in unison to look at the adjoining wall. “Jesus _Christ_ , I think the asshole next door’s having sex again,” Hemsworth groaned, walking over to the wall to hit his gavel against it instead. “Keep it down!” he shouted. He looked back at Evans and Pine and gave a long-suffering sigh, even as the noise level receded somewhat. “It’s every night, I swear to God. I don’t even know who the hell the asshole is and _I hate him_.”

* * *

Next door, Anthony Mackie paused mid-fucking Sebastian Stan to scowl. “Fucking Hemsworth,” he said, before Sebastian hauled him back in for another kiss.

* * *

"This is the worst idea anyone has had ever," Zachary Quinto declared.

Ludacris ignored him, tossing him a pair of leather pants, a matching rhinestone studded jacket, and a tube of eyeliner. "You mentioned that," Ludacris remarked, tugging on his own leather jacket. "Now stop being a pussy and put on the eyeliner."

It had been Terrence's idea, Zach thought bitterly. _Macklemore was clearly performing at Club G!ay tonight,_ Terrence had said. _It would make sense to go undercover_ , Terrence had said.

What Terrence neglected to mention to Zachary until ten minutes prior to when they were due to leave was that the bar was, in fact, a gay bar, and they'd be going undercover as one of the leading musical acts of the night. He probably should’ve guessed that from the fact that the bar was literally called Club G!ay, but Zach just assumed that some (granted, crucial) shit had gotten lost in translation. Fucking Russia.

"Relax, Zach," Ben said, slapping him on the back a little too roughly and causing Zach to almost stumble forward. Ben had taken to his tight leather and eyeliner like a fish to water. It was a little disconcerting. "It's going to be _fun_!"

"Okay, A," Zach said, wincing as he rubbed the spot on his back Ben had hit, "we look like a group of vaguely pedophilic leather daddies. B, my last brush with musical instruments was in the fourth grade when I played the tuba in my elementary school marching band."

Cuba stopped in the act of putting on sparkly gray eyeshadow to smirk at Zach. "You should feel right at home then."

Damn him, the eyeshadow looked good on him too.

Terrence clapped his hands together in an effort to get his team's attention. "Okay, gang, everyone ready?" he asked, looking pointedly at Zachary (who had finally begin to put on his get-up, grumbling all the way).

"Wait," Ludacris said, smiling a smile that Zachary thought vaguely resembled the Dark Lord Satan himself. "We're still waiting on one person."

"Hey babe,” said Chris Pine, appearing in the doorway as though summoned. He strode over to Zachary confidently, swinging an arm around his shoulder and smirking widely. He was still wearing sunglasses. “Sorry I’m late, had an emergency meeting for a super top secret society I’m in, or whatever. No big deal.”

“Chris seemed so eager to help out,” Cuba said, beaming, “that we hired him to work as our groupie. More specifically, _your_ groupie.”

“I’m your number one fan,” Chris said, lowering his sunglasses to wink. “Now, where can I get some of those _sweet_  leather pants?”

Zach wasn’t going to survive the night.

* * *

The atmosphere of Club G!ay was an enjoyable one, Zachary supposed, if you happened to enjoy flashing strobe lights as your only light source, loud blaring music, and muscular gay men in tight shirts everywhere. Zachary did, in fact, happen to enjoy the last one, but the first two were not quite his forte.

"I still think this was an awful idea," he shouted over the music at Terrence, who did nothing but grin at him. On the stage in the back, a drag queen who called herself _La Petite Emerald_ was covering (and butchering) Cher’s “Believe”. There was something extremely familiar about the drag queen, but Zach couldn’t quite put his finger on it; she was terrible, anyway, nowhere near as good as Owl Jolson’s reprise of his “I Love to Singa” in the previous act. Who knew the song was a metaphor for homosexuality.

Terrence just grinned at him, and his grin only widened when Chris Pine got back from the bar and placed a glass in front of Zach. “Hey babe,” Chris said, sliding his shades down a bit to wink at Zach yet again. “Got you that organic low-cal sugar-free iced tea you wanted.”

Zach smiled gratefully, biting back the “Thanks babe” that threatened to make its way out; Chris was faking the groupie thing, he told himself. Babe was just his way of saying “bro”. Before Zach could start on the iced tea, Terrence was tugging on his sleeve in the direction of the stage; the drag queen had finished her performance and was bowing. "Come on,” he shouted over the music, “We're up now.”

Zachary groaned, but allowed himself to be pulled along. From further back, he could more fully appreciate just how good of a job the rest of the League had done trussing up Chris Pine as their groupie, and how enthusiastically he had taken to it; he had even gone so far as to make a tee-shirt with the League's faces superimposed over—was that Green Day? Either way, Zach had to give him props for that. Zach also wanted to give Chris props for the tight pants he was sporting. He was so distracted by the thought of giving Chris many, _many_ props that he almost missed the wave and sly smile the man shot him.

Zach waved back, thankful that the darkness of the club was at least covering his blush.

Terrence smirked at him. "You can flirt with your boyfriend later," he said, and suddenly Terrence was marching him up on the stage (oh god, how did they get to it so fast?) and thrusting a microphone into his hands. "You're our lead singer," he clarified after seeing the look on Zach's face.

"No, I'm not," Zach replied. He held the microphone out back to Terrence.

"Yes, you are," Cuba said, appearing at Terrence's right and looking entirely too gleeful. He shoved the microphone back at Zach. "I'm your back-up."

Zach stared at Terrence, Cuba, Ludacris (who was tuning his guitar), and Ben (who was testing out his drums) in horror. "No."

"Yes," Ludacris and Cuba chorused in unison.

Before Zach could protest even more, Ben got up from his drums and pulled him aside. "Okay," he hissed in Zach's ear, "Macklemore and his henchmen are in the crowd, and they’re due to go on after us. Your boy Pine is our look-out. If they start to move towards any exits, he's been instructed to warn us so we can act fast."

Zach blinked. "How is he going to warn us?"

Ben shrugged. "Ludacris suggested he either rip off his shirt and throw it at us, or scream 'Marry me, Zach!' Possibly both. Probably both, actually."

Zach made a noise that was not unlike that of the dying offspring of a walrus and a goat, and before he knew it Terrence was tapping the microphone. Gods help them all.

"Hi," Terrence said, and the club fell silent as all eyes shot up to face him. He smiled, a little awkwardly. "We're the Super Mega Homo band, and we'll be playing for you tonight!" Terrence waited a beat, before adding, "The Super Mega Homo band happens to be our name, too, actually."

As Ludacris groaned quietly behind them, Zach was surprised to actually hear the crowd laugh. Maybe they could pull this off. Maybe they could actually pass as a band. Maybe he would recover long enough from The _West Side_ _Story_ Incident Of 6th Grade to steal the show with his amazing vocals. Maybe Chris would magically fall in love with him on stage and Zach could let him know just how much he appreciated those tight pants when it was all over. Maybe—

"Our first number," Cuba was suddenly saying, snapping Zach from his wistful sexual fantasies of leather pants and _The West Side Story_ soundtrack, "is a mash-up of Macklemore's 'Same Love' and R Kelly's 'Trapped in the Closet'."

Or, maybe, Zach realized, this was probably going to be a horrible disaster.

There was a polite smattering of applause, and Ben tapped his drumsticks together over his head three times and shouted “ _One, two, three_!” like he thought he was Ringo Starr, or something. He needed to stop playing so much Rockband. Zach also needed to stop stalling and sing.

“ _When I was in the third grade_ ,” he began, “ _I was in the closet like man, what the fuck’s going on_?”

And then it all fell to shit.

Though, not in the way Zach had anticipated.

He hadn’t anticipated an explosion to suddenly rock the club, cutting off Ben’s terrible drumming with loud, shrill screams from the audience. He hadn’t anticipated someone tackling him to the ground, or Terrence screaming “ _Everyone get down!_ ” and “ _Shit!”_ and “ _It was a trap, it was a goddamn trap_!” somewhere very far away. He couldn’t see anything but he could smell smoke and taste something unpleasantly like blood in his mouth and Christ, what had happened?

After what felt like a hundred years the person who had tackled him was getting off of him and someone very familiar was shaking his arm and saying “Zach!” frantically.

He blinked and sat up, squinting through the smoky haze that now filled the club. He could just make out Chris Pine above him and--the drag queen from earlier? “You saved his life,” Chris was saying to the drag queen, as though in awe. The drag queen gave a smile that was more like a smirk and Zach was suddenly hit with horrible realization as to who it was.

“No problem,” James Franco said, removing his long blonde wig and false eyelashes. “No problem at _all_.”

Then Chris was scooping Zach up into his arms, almost crying with relief. “You’re awake, thank Elba,” he said, crushing Zach against him.

Zach didn’t bother trying to struggle out of his arms. “What--?”

“It was a trap,” Terrence said grimly, suddenly appearing over Chris’s shoulder. His leather jacket was singed and his eyeliner was smeared, but other than that he seemed fine. “Macklemore planted the planner so we would find it and come here, and when we went onstage, he activated a fucking _bomb_.” Zach had never seen Terrence so livid; the man rarely swore.

“It was in the microphone,” Ben said, next to Terrence; Zach was relieved to see that he seemed to be in the same state as Terrence. “The one you were using. If James hadn’t gotten to you in time…” He trailed off, shuddering a little. “Luda and Cuba are fine, though, and no civilians were injured, thank Idris, Chiwetel, Oprah, and Neeson.”

Zach sat up a little straighter, looking around the club. There was a big gaping hole in the stage where his microphone had been and most of the club-goers were huddled on the ground with their hands over their heads, but aside from that, no one appeared to have suffered any sufficient damage. He didn’t see Macklemore anywhere, not that he expected to; the bastard had probably fled right after trying to fucking blow him up, if he had even been there at all.

“Lucky I was here, eh?” James Franco said, smiling, the gaudiness of his stage make-up and dress still visible even with a fine layer of soot over them. Zach wasn’t sure which was more shocking; that James Franco apparently fucking moonlighted as a drag queen, or that James Franco, while fucking moonlighting as a drag queen, had saved his life. James held out a hand to Zach, squinty eyes twinkling, and if Chris hadn’t been clutching him in a death grip he would’ve taken it.

“Yeah,” Terrence said, nodding soberly. “Lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u imagine if we put this much effort into school  
> hey u can also hit us up on twitter too @ buckgaybarnes and mystori_machine


	9. Battle of the Bulge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Mackle No More League gets a few new members, the Queen masters the art of subtweets, Randy Jackson has his own training montage, Brendan Fraser and Sandra Bullock's team of two becomes a team of five, the authors had way too much fun Googling 1920s slang, sexual tension is resolved and subsequently a sex tape is leaked, Betty White embraces her inner Ms. Hannigan, the How to Get Away With Murder cast finally makes an appearance, asses are eaten, Joe Biden probably tracks the "sad relatable quotes" tumblr tag, one of the authors seizes the chance to turn the League into the Bluth family, and the Major Character Death warning is finally relevant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I was absorbed and eaten by her vagina the way you fall asleep; slowly, and then all at once." -John Green, if he wrote that one scene in 'American Gods'

In the shadiest (both literally and figuratively) part of Sochi, a deal was going on.

It was your usual run-of-the-mill hitman deal; three men, encased in shadows, in a dark alleyway behind a club. It was nothing out of the ordinary--especially not for the club, who liked to advertise the fact they had a _genuine secret police-sanctioned hitman_ working out of their club and posted as many signs around Sochi broadcasting it as possible.

This was where the first two men had gotten the idea.

The third was, in fact, the hitman.

“Relax, gentlemen,” the third man said, regarding his companions with amusement as they glanced nervously around the alleyway. “This is, as you might say, my office. No one comes in without my say-so.”

The other two men didn’t look appeased, and they jumped when a car _whish_ ed by the exit of the alleyway. The third man chuckled.

“You have the money?” he said, and the second man nodded. He pulled a wad of bills out of his Team All-American Wonderbread letterman jacket and handed them to the hitman.

“Are you sure you can handle this, kid?” the first man, Bill Murray asked, voice low. “It’s a pretty big order.”

“And you look a lot more like a movie star than any hitman I’ve ever hired--I mean, seen,” the second man, Tom Hanks, added.

If it wasn’t so dark, Team All American Wonderbread would’ve been able to see the face of their third associate. And he was, in fact, smiling. “Don’t worry,” he said, pocketing the stack of money without bothering to count it. “I know what I’m doing. He'll be taken care of by midnight."

* * *

**Sochi Bulletin** @ SochiNews  
We sit down to talk with @LanaDelRey about her performance in the Olympics opening ceremony and the possibility of a new album.

(retweeted by  **ludacris** )

**Zachary Quinto** @ QuintoBean  
why does james franco keep texting me :////

**Dr. Oz** @ WizardofOz  
See me talk with Guy Fireri later on the benefits of eating ass! More info here sochinews.com/ass...

(retweeted by  **Jack Falahee** )

* * *

After the debacle at Club G!ay the previous night, the members of the Mackle No More League were not feeling particularly heartened in their hunt for Macklemore; in the disorientation and confusion following the explosion, most of the clubgoers had fled and taken any useful leads or eyewitnesses with them. There was no hide nor hair nor overcoat of Macklemore, Ryan Lewis the canine, or Queen Latifah that night, either--leading Terrence to believe Macklemore may have picked up another Ally to do his work for him that night.

“It’s the only solution,” he insisted, repeatedly. “He _must’ve_ had a mole in the club that activated the bomb.”

Terrence was a man possessed; he hadn’t slept all night, choosing instead to pull together all the information the League had on Macklemore in a massive bulletin board diorama. Newspaper clippings and photographs were tacked onto it, as well as a massive map of the world with pushpins in every place Macklemore had been spotted or rumored to be spotted in. It was truly a board that epitomized the [Big Board TV Trope](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheBigBoard). It also took up an entire wall of the hotel room, blocking the door to the attached bathroom and subsequently trapping Cuba (who had ducked in to relieve himself at around 1 am before the Board went up) inside of it all night.

“Terrence,” Ben said gently, ignoring Cuba’s pounding and shouts of “ _What the fuck, Terrence?”_ on the other side of the wall, “You need some sleep. Just staring at this--” he waved his hand to encompass the Board, “--isn’t helping us at all.”

“The answer’s right in front of us, Ben,” Terrence said, frustrated. “Why can’t I see it? _Why_?” Angrily, he kicked over a nearby wastebin. Crumpled up newspapers and more clippings fell out of it, and Terrence seized one from the floor. “Look at this,” he said, waving it in Ben’s face. “‘ _Shrek_ Actress Cameron Diaz Still Missing: Are Authorities Giving Up Hope?’” he read aloud.

Ben gently pushed the clipping down to look Terrence in the eye. “Terrence--” he began, calmly.

“We know it was Macklemore, Ben!” Terrence interrupted furiously. “He’s here, he’s in Sochi, and we almost had him last night! The life of that poor woman hangs in the balance--”

Almost as if on cue, there was a knock on the hotel room door. Terrence angrily stalked over to it and swung it open, but whatever he was going to say died on his tongue when he realized he was looking into the grave faces of Michael “Mike” Meyers, Eddie Murphey, and Antonio Banderas.

“Mr. Howard,” Michael Meyers began. “Word is that you’ve been looking for our friend. We want to help you.”

"All three of us," Antonio added.

“Anything for Cameron,” Eddie finished solemnly.

Terrence shot a look at Ben, who nodded. A tired smile appeared on Terrence's face. “Well, boys,” he said. “Welcome to the Mackle No More League.”

* * *

Bill sighed, rubbing his head and wondering, "What the hell did I do last night?" He wasn't in his bed. Instead, he was inside of one of the empty drawers of a dresser. Man, his head hurt.

The suite was empty. He checked everywhere for signs of life--the closet, under the bed, the trash bin--but the others were nowhere to be found. There was a sticky note stuck to the door that read, "Went to pick up some Tylenol. There are twinkies in the mini fridge if you get hungry. Love, Barry." Bill immediately leaped to the fridge and emptied the contents of it into his mouth. Unfortunately, they didn't help with his migraine, or the fact that he smelled terrible.

The only sound in the entire suite was coming from the bathroom, but he didn't care. He pushed open the door, relishing in the warmth of the steamy room, and started taking off his clothes. It had to be Hillary in the shower; she wouldn't have left him by himself. Would she?

Once fully nude, he pulled back the curtain, and realized that she would.

An also very nude Joe looked on with horror, attempting to cover himself up with the curtain, screaming as if he was being murdered. Bill sighed again. He was too hungover for this.

"Joe."

The VP kept screaming, and thrashed around the shower, knocking various shampoos and soaps off the shower rack.

"Joe."

Still screaming, he covered his eyes with his hands, learning the hard way that said hands were still covered in soap. He screamed louder.

"Joe."

Joseph grabbed a bottle of red raspberry scented shampoo, and poured it down the drain, the fluids resembling the blood of the damned.

"JOE!" Bill grabbed the fool and shook him. He, thankfully, stopped screaming.

"I'm sorry," the politician said, totally not sorry. "You just surprised me, is all." He blinked the tears from his eyes. "I was so afraid you were Mitt."

Bill chuckled. "I almost thought you were him too. Mind making room for one more in there? I smell like shit."

Joe furrowed his eyebrows, contemplating, before beckoning him inside with his hand. "Fine, but no using my shampoo."

Mr. Clinton slid in, and grabbed a bad of soap. "This isn't gay at all."

"Nope, not one bit," agreed Joe as he lathered shampoo into Bill's head. They cleansed in peace, waiting for their colleagues to return so they could finally get down to business.

* * *

The Hot Famous Muscular Blond Chris Club was previously in a state defined as (according to Chris Hemsworth’s recorded minutes on the current meeting) “[…]somewhat between _minor discord_ and _complete and utter anarchy_ , with a more heavy leaning on the latter". This was due to the acceptance of the exclusive club's latest member, which certain people (Chris Pine) took issue to.

“He’s just not hot enough!” Chris Pine exclaimed, whipping off his sunglasses and gesticulating wildly with them in the general direction of the aforementioned newest member, who also happened to be _Parks and Recreation_ star Chris Pratt. “We’re the _Hot_ Famous Muscular Blond Chris Club! It’s an affront to the very thing this organization stands for!”

“I’m a hell of a lot hotter than you are!” Chris Pratt shot back at him angrily, poking him straight in the chest.

Chris Pine shoved his sunglasses back on just so he could rip them off furiously again. “You wanna fuckin’ go, Pratt? Right here? Right now?”

Chris Hemsworth banged his gavel on his desk loudly. “Order! Order in the court!”

“ _What_ court?” Chris Evans exclaimed, while also holding Chris Pratt back so he couldn’t tackle Chris Pine to the $1000 carpet. Or whatever the hell $1000 is in Russian currency. It was an expensive carpet.

“We all voted,” Chris Hemsworth continued calmly, as Chrises Pine and Pratt glared daggers at each other, “and you were outnumbered, Pine. That’s the way this goes.”

“This is bullshit,” Chris Pine spat, but he flung himself dramatically into his chair and made no further complaint. Chris Evans released Chris Pratt, who made a point to sit as far away from Chris Pine as possible.

The uncomfortable silence was palpable in the room, and Chris Evans cleared his throat. “So,” he said, “welcome, Mr. Pratt.” He and Chris Hemsworth clapped politely. Chris Pine glowered in his armchair. In the hotel room next door, there came the loud sound of the neighbors having sex again. It was sufficiently awkward for all parties involved.

“Thank you,” Chris Pratt said, smiling at Evans and Hemsworth. “I’m so honored you decided to induct me. Or,” his eyes flickered over to Pine, “most of you.”

“Zoe Saldana still loves me more,” Chris Pine said casually, examining his fingernails.

An expression of deep pain crossed Chris Pratt’s face. “Don’t say that. Never say that.”

“She told me you were annoying and Bradley Cooper agrees with her,” Chris Pine continued, in the same tone that a five-year-old would use while telling their younger sibling their mother liked them better than the sibling.

“You’re a goddamn _liar_!” Pratt shouted, leaping onto Chris Pine’s armchair and trying to throttle him again.

The fight resumed, and Chris Hemsworth watched the fight with bored resignation as he copied everything down into the meeting minutes. It consisted of a lot of things in parentheses notating an action, expletives in quotation marks, and, when his mind had wandered, two paragraphs of the Thorki smutfic he and Tom Hidddleston were co-writing.

Chris Evans, meanwhile, was brooding. He had looked into the _I Have An Unrequited Gay Crush On My Co-Star_ support group that met across the hall after Pine had mentioned it last meeting and had picked up a pamphlet, but it didn’t look like it would help him much. For one thing, the pamphlet declared that Step #1 of Having An Unrequited Gay Crush On Your Co-Star was _Never tell him ever. It is better to wallow in self-pity than face rejection_ , which Chris didn’t think was beneficial or healthy.

“Hemwsorth,” Chris Evans began slowly, and Chris Hemsworth looked up from writing a scene where Thor and Loki declared their more-than-adopted-brotherly love for each other, “if I like someone and want to tell them, how should I go about doing it?”

Chris Pine paused in the middle of throwing a priceless vase at Chris Pratt’s head. “Back the fuck up,” he said. “Are we talking liking or _like_ liking? Because if it’s the second I _so_ called it.”

“Likeliking,” Chris Evans sighed.

Forgetting all about Chris Pratt, Chris Pine gleefully squished himself into the side of Chris Evans’s armchair. “Okay,” he said, with the sort of manic excitement usually reserved for teen girls talking about their crushes at a sleepover. “Here’s what you do.”

* * *

**Chris Evans** @ ChrisEvans  
just gotta breathe

* * *

Don jiggled his leg up and down nervously and glanced at the door of the hotel room. James was supposed to be meeting him any second now for their fifth--fifth!--coffee date, and his nerves were running rampant.

It was all happening so quickly for Don; he’d met the man barely over a week ago and he had already fallen head over heels for him. The curl of his hair, the glimmer of his smile, the way he liked to talk nonstop about himself… Don couldn’t help himself around him. He was utterly and irrevocably in love with James Franco, and he wanted to shout it to the world.

“Shout it somewhere else,” Steve Harvey grumbled, flipping through the latest edition of _Gameshow Host Digest_ and sounding thoroughly unimpressed with Don's infatuation with James Franco. “Your gay vibes are making it too hard to read.”

“Oh, ‘Rod,” Don chuckled, patting his teammate and closest friend on the bald head. “You’ll find love one day, too, and you’ll know how I feel!”

Steve Harvey fell silent, looking past Don and into a memory he hadn’t revisited in a long time--a memory he hadn’t been able to revisit in a long time. “I did know, once,” he murmured softly. He cleared his throat, blinking a few unshed tears from his eyes. “You watch yourself, boy,” he continued, sternly. “People like Sa--people like James will use you, make you think they love you, then break your heart and leave you alone in the _dirt._ ” His voice rose. “They say they love you, yes, they say they’d do anything for you--but they go running back to their ex-husband with _your_ child and you’re left cold and alone and wondering what you did wrong. You hear me, Don? You hea--!”

There was a knock on the door, and Don beamed. “That’ll be James!” he said happily, completely ignoring whatever Steve Harvey had been saying and yanking it open excitedly.

James Franco lounged effortlessly against the doorframe, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a teddy bear in the other. “Knock knock,” he said, holding both things out to Don, “these are for you.”

“They’re wonderful, James,” Don gushed excitedly, setting both teddy bear and flowers down on the side table. “I’ll have Steve put the flowers in a vase!”

“Good, because I have a wonderful day planned out for us,” James said, taking Don by the arm. He shot Steve a wink. “You don’t mind if I whisk him away for a few hours, do you, eh?”

Steve grunted his begrudging assent, watching James suspiciously.

“Great!” James said, pulling Don out of the hotel room. He did that annoying finger-wiggle half wave. “Ciao!”

The door slammed, and Steve Harvey was left alone to his thoughts and regret. “Be smart, kid,” he said quietly, watching where Don had just walked out. “Be smart.”

“So, James,” Don said happily as he and James made their way arm and arm down the hotel hallway. “Where are we going? To breakfast? To the Hall of Communist Propaganda? To--?”

James put a hand over Don’s mouth. “Not quite,” he whispered, opening up a nearby closet and backing the both of them up into it. He closed the door behind them, sheathing both men in darkness.

“James--?” Don said, curiously.

“Don,” James said, “I can’t wait a moment longer.” He clasped Don’s hand in his. “Don, I--I thought I had given up on love for good when Seth Rogen dumped me. But then you came into my life and showed me how wrong I was about giving up on love--on giving up on how I feel for you.”

He kissed Don.

A million fireworks seemed to go off in Don’s head. James was kissing him! The man of Don’s dreams was kissing him! James _did_ feel the same way back!

“Oh, James,” Don sighed happily, as James pushed him against one of the shelving units. “I feel like a deer in the headlights of love!”

“Then I must be the car,” James whispered, ever the poet.

* * *

"Punch it in the snout, Sandra! In the goddamn ass licking snout!"

Sandra did as ordered, receiving a howl in return. The K9 fought back, however, with a clawed paw to the face. Sandra growled. Dogs were no longer her best friend.

"We're heading for the bridge! If we can make a good landing, maybe we can shake 'em!" Brendan hollered from in front of her. She nodded. Yes, that would have to work. If not, well, let's say Hollywood's (thirty second) most iconic couple was going to be enjoying their next role as puppy chow.

After Steve Martin has sicked the dogs on them, they had just barely escaped the hardware store with their lives after about four hours of fighting. Now, you may be wondering how the hell it could've taken them so damn long to just get out the store, but you'd be surprised by the damage so many brainwashed dogs owned by Steve Martin can do. The owner of Bolshevik's R' Us was definitely not happy.

The next several hours had involved them running down the streets of Stalingrad (which is actually pretty far away from Sochi but who cares), as thirty fucking animals chased them through back alleys and city parks. They had managed to find a room in a dingy motel outside of Sochi (how they managed to get there so fast, we'll never know) so they could at least rest for the night, but were soon interrupted by all of the dogs bursting through the windows of the room, waking them out of their shared slumber.

By now, it was dawn, and they were running on even less than E. The dogs were still on their tail (( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)) and didn't look like they were planning on letting up anytime soon. What kinda kibble was Steve feeding them.

The bridge was only a few more sprints away, but the vehicles below were going by so fast, the likelihood of them making it out alive worried Sandra. "Brendan, I don't think we're gonna make it! Even at the speed we're running at, the chances of us landing perfectly on a truck are pretty small!"

"Just trust me on this one, Sandy!" He came to a stop in front of the railing  that hung over the highway. He braced himself against it in an attempt to catch his breath. "Just...trust me."

Sandra joined him, looking behind her quickly to see the hounds ready to lunge. "You know I do. Should we--now?"

Brendan's eyes scanned the busy road. He needed to wait for the exact moment. If they jumped just a millisecond off, they were sure as fucked. "Okay...now!" He grabbed her hand and they both leapt off the railing, flailing wildly as they swiftly approached the ground. U kno they ded.

By some twisted stroke of luck, a garbage truck drove by just as they were about to meet their doom. Brendan fell unceremoniously in the pile of filth, disgusted, but grateful that he was still alive. Sandra, however, was less (or more, if you value not being covered in the stench of month old cabbage soup) fortunate, and was hanging off the side of the truck by the hood of her fur hoodie. Both the fear of falling and the stank made her eyes water with tears. "Brendan, help!"

He nodded, trying his hardest to stand up, but falling back on the slimy bags of trash each time. He resorted to crawling, ignoring the occasional rat that scurried across his path. Once he reached the other side of the truck, he peered over the edge, finally seeing his frantic friend, and more importantly, the thread of her hoodie about to break.

"Hold in there, Sand!" He slung his arm over, just as the strand ripped and nearly sent the _Gravity_  actress onto the moving ground. He hoisted her up by the arm, using all of the strength that he had gained from the _Mummy_  films. Within seconds, Sandra Bullock was saved.

He laid her out on the nasty garbage, like a mother lays an infant into a crib. Sandra was dumbfounded. Had Brendan actually done something? And succeeded?

"I--you--how--you saved me..." She sputtered out, partially due to the shock and partially because a fly that kinda looked like Vladamir Putin had perched itself on Brendan's nose. He was none the wiser. As usual.

He ducked his head. "It was nothing. You would've done the same thing for me."

Sandra smiled. "I wouldn't."

"Oh,"

The grin on Sandra's face remained there for the rest of the ride, as she stared at her ex as if he was painted with a new light. A little light, yes, but still a light. And she was gonna let it shine. :')

The garbage truck rode into the sunset, probably to the largest, rankest landfill in all of Russia, but, at that moment, Sandra really didn't care.

"I knew this thing would take us to a landfill," Brendan commented as the truck lurched to a stop. It was a landfill, alright. They had parked right in front of Brezhnev's Brews, where the driver (who had recently gotten their nails done, Brendan noted) was currently entering. The action star coughed as he choked on a mixture of fumes and the Putin!fly, motioning for Sandra to follow him out of the truck. "I need a drink. Several, actually."

"And I need to take a shower, but we can't all have what we need, now can we? I'd like to know what's going on. You never did tell me back at the hardware store." Sandra reminded as she picked a banana peel out of her now ratty hair.

Brendan blew air out of his nose before suggesting, "We'll discuss it over cranberry juice and vodka." They travelled the path that the handsome driver had taken, pushing open the wooden doors and walking into the seedy establishment.

Through the dim light of the smoky bar, he could just make out two men fighting--no, bickering, they were most definitely bickering--one with shoulder length, slightly greasy hair, and the other with a hard face and extremely crooked teeth. Regardless of their meager appearances, they reminded Brendan of someone, two certain someones whom he had become well acquainted with during the filming of one of his most trashed movies. However, he couldn't recall their names, just that the two gays before him triggered something within him.

"...Of course not, you _idiot_. Why would you even want to try that anyway?" Jabbed the hoboesque one with a Scottish accent.

"Because, it'd be...kinky." Replied the other man. He picked up his brew and took a long sip, eyes never leaving those of Twink Jesus.

The paler man blushed, and tried to busy himself with his own half empty glass. "You're disgusting. And, even if I _wanted_  to telepathically fuck you with my mind, which I don't, my powers aren't strong enough. It's those goddamn old fuddy-duddys' faults."

Despite still not knowing who the fellas reminded him of, Brendan definitely understood who they were. "M-Mr. Tumnus! Is...is that you?"

The faun's deep, crystalline eyes twitched. "Who said that!?! I wanna know who said that!! Approach me right now, cretin!" Their sight holes connected. " _You_. Who the fuck do you think you are?"

The sitting man grabbed Mr. Tumnus by the shoulders. "Now, now, James. Just calm down. He didn't mean anything by it."

Sandra rushed in front of the fool. "Forgive him, Mr. McAvoy, for he does not know of his crime."

"Who the fuck is James McAvoy."

James lunged at him, not unlike the dogs that had been chasing him for the better part of 40 hours.

A fist connected with Brendan's nose, marking the fifth time he'd been punched in the past week. He should probably do something about that.

Sandra yelped, fearing for her ex-lover's safety, but also awed by the fact that James McAvoy himself had just punched said ex-lover in the face. She made a mental note to never piss off McTumnus.

He stomped back to his stool, returning to his conversation with the other man as if nothing had happened.

After being handed a bag of ice by a kind bartender, Sandra pressed it to the area around Brendan's bleeding nose and swiftly swelling eye. "Wanna tell me what this is all about now?"

"No! I need to talk to the faun...I must receive answers." He waded through the fog and practically flopped against the bar between the two men.

"So...uh, I'm Brendan Fraser--"

James slammed his glass down on the countertop, shards of it cutting through his hand. He didn't appear to notice. He reached his bloody hand to tug at Brendan's collar, and with a thick tremor to his voice, grunted, "Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffuck off."

Brendan reached a finger up to wipe a stray blob of saliva off his face. "Will do, but I have a question."

James' fuckbuddy spoke up. "Good Neeson, man. What's your problem? Can't you see that he _doesn't_  want anything to do with you and your--your...stench! For the love of my ass, you smell like you've been marinating in trash for the past decade!"

Sandra cleared her throat as she rushed towards the trio. "Make that two hours."

James pushed some unwashed hair out of his beautiful face, finally releasing Brendan and his scent. "Look, we're just two guys trying to have a drink, a laugh, and maybe a shag, alright? All I'm asking of your boyfriend here is to leave me alone for the rest of eternity. Is that too much to ask?" He gave a quick glance to his fella, whose nose was still scrunched up in disgust. "And, if it's really that much trouble, Michael here will pay you off."

"I will do no such thing!" Shouted Michael, which earned him a hard look from James. Something seemed to change in his expression, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Name your price, darlings."

Brendan shook his head. "We don't want your money! I just...I need to know something. Seeing you two...it sparked something. I don't know what, but I want to find out, and fast, because I think it might be important for my mission."

Sandra groaned, arms raised in the air in exasperation. "What. Fucking. Mission. Brendan James Fraser, if you don't tell me what all this mess is about, so help me Oprah..."

"Okay! Okay!" Brendan placed both hands on Sandra's tense shoulders, rubbing his thumb in light circles on the blades, just as he knew she liked it. "I'll tell you. Just calm down, I know you haven't been taking your blood pressure medication lately." Sandra nodded and took a deep breath. She couldn't help but think to herself how good Brendan was at keeping her at ease. Much better, she thought, than a certain someone from her past.

"So, you know my dad, right?"

"Alan Rickman, who once called me the spawn of satan?"

Brendan cracked a smile. "Yes! Well, he's in trouble. He's been kidnapped by this squadron of gays, or something, and needs me to find him. On top of all that, he mentioned something about a diamond...I don't know what the significance of it is, but I think it's important. Important enough for me to need your help. And," he motioned towards Mcfassy. "You guys, too. You look like you've been through some shit."

Michael raised his relatively unbroken glass. "That we have. But, that doesn't mean we're just gonna go along with whatever the hell _Taken_  bullshit you want us to do."

Sandra rolled her eyes. "What if we say we'll pay for your room and board for the duration of the mission?"

James sneered. "Nice try, but not enough." He flagged the bartender down for a new glass of scotch. "Try harder."

The actress pursed her lips. "You'll be able to have as much uninterrupted sex as you want."

Michael gave the Scotsman a hopeful look, but was turned down with a, "We already have that covered, thank you. Please, if you can't think of anything else, you should be on your way."

"We'll give you one billion dollars!" Brendan shouted, alerting half of the bar-goers. Sandra waved them off, desperately.

"As nice as that sounds," spoke James after taking a much needed sip of his drink. "You two don't exactly peg me as billionaires. No deal."

"No, no, no, we don't have the money _yet_ , but I'm sure with whatever profits we earn from this diamond will ensure that we do!"

James bit his lip, and faced his friend. "What do you think, love? Should we throw all caution to the wind and join these two possible drug dealers on an adventure to most likely obtain more meth?"

"For sex and a billion bucks, I'd do anything. We're in!" He reached out his hand for Brendan to shake, though it was rejected when Sandra grabbed the other man by the arm.

"Are you out of your mind?!" She whispered through gritted teeth into Brendan's ear. "What if that diamond doesn't make us any money? What if we can't even find it? These guys could _kill us_."

"Honey, that is a risk I'm willing to take." He patted both men on the back as they stood up. "Let's go find us my pop and a diamond!"

"A diamond, huh?" Muttered a husky voice from the darkest corner at the end of the bar. "This diamond got a name?"

Michael pulled out a revolver, ignoring the remarks of "where the hell did you get that from" from his side. "Who goes there?"

The figure, shrouded by darkness, downed the rest of it's beer. "Just answer the question."

Brendan gulped. "Uh, it's called the Homosexual Diamond, I believe."

The figure sighed, and finally stepped into the light. It was...

"Hugh Jackman? What are you doing here, at a filthy bar in the middle of nowhere?" Asked Michael as he finally put his gun away. Hugh leaned against the countertop.

"I could ask you the same question, buddy. But, I won't, because you don't have much time. The diamond is in a secure area. You'll never be able to find it, and honestly, after you hear about what's happened to the others who've searched for it, you're not gonna want to."

Ignoring basically everything Hugh had just said, Brendan pointed out, "Aren't you the guy that drove us here on a garbage truck?"

Hugh took a look at his metal Wolverine talons. "I am a man of many means. You want to know about the death and mutilation associated with the diamond or not?"

"We'll take our chances. Nothing's gonna talk me out of this, alright? This is my dad on the line. We only want to know where it is. Can you tell us or am I gonna have to beat it out of you?"

The star gave him a once over before falling into a fit of laughter. "You're! You're fucking kidding right? You?! Beat me? Up?!" He was on the scum-filled floor at this point. "I'm pretty sure the most you've ever fought was when you punched yourself in the face in that one scene in _Looney Toons: Back in Action_ , you chicken shit!"

That's when it clicked. "BAFFY! IT'S BAFFY!" He enveloped the new additions to the team in a large hug. "You guys remind me of Daffy and Bugs! I knew it! Isn't this great, Sandy? Man, we are gonna have so much fun now. Let's go!" He ran out of the bar, skipping and and doing backflips once he was safely outside. Sandra gawked after him, before taking a much more orthodox walk out of the establishment.

James closed his eyes. "What did we get ourselves into?"

His lover crossed his arm. "I already told you: sex and cash. Hugh, you gonna tell us where the diamond is or what?"

Wolverine exhaled. "Fine, but you're not gonna like it."

* * *

Sebastian Stan stared at the ceiling of Anthony Mackie’s hotel room, lying on the bed and pondering how it was that he was barely over 30 and already full of so much regret. Regret and bad life decisions. He regretted acting like an idiot in front of Chris the other night. He regretted drowning his sorrows over acting like an idiot in front of Chris the other night at the gay bar every night following. He regretted agreeing to be in _The Covenant_.

At least he didn’t regret sleeping with Anthony. That was probably a plus.

Anthony stepped out of the bathroom attached to the room, toweling his hair. “If you get dressed,” he said, picking Sebastian’s shirt up off the floor and throwing it at him, “we can get breakfast before the figure skating competition begins.”

“I think I’m in love with Chris Evans,” Sebastian said.

Anthony stared at him for a few moments before tossing the towel at Sebastian and walking towards the hotel room door. “I’m getting breakfast without you,” he called behind him.

“Wait!” Sebastian said, accidentally tangling himself in his shirt while he rushed to put it on and scramble out of bed at the same time. Anthony, after watching him try to stick his head through the armhole for a few seconds, eventually took pity on him with a sigh and helped him with it.

“Thanks,” Sebastian said, smiling sheepishly. He blinked. “What was I talking about?”

Anthony sighed again. He seemed to be doing a lot of sighing around Sebastian, recently. “Your tragically unrequited crush?” he suggested, realizing the only way to get out of this was to just let Sebastian talk about his feelings. A look of long-suffering pain crossed Sebastian’s face. A similar feeling metaphorically crossed Anthony’s heart.

“Right,” he said. He sat back on the edge of the bed. “I mean...I could deal with it if I just wanted to blow him and be done with it, or something--”

“--I don’t need nor want those mental images, thank you--”

“--but it’s more than that,” Sebastian continued. “I mean. I want to blow him, but I also want to, like, hold his hand and go on dates. That’s love, right?” He looked mournfully out the window. _If this was a movie_ , he thought miserably, _there would be a bunch of dramatic cutscenes of me walking alone in the rain interspliced with all my memories of Chris._ He waited patiently for a cutscene, or even just for it to start raining outside, but neither happened.

Anthony’s face softened a bit. “Hey, man,” he said, reaching to awkwardly pat Sebastian on the shoulder. “Let’s get breakfast, okay? I’ll buy.”

Sebastian smiled gratefully. "Sure."

* * *

After a long and gay morning, it was finally time for the first event to begin--singles figure skating. Sochi once again came alive to eagerly crowd into the stands to watch gold-medal hopefuls perform amazing twists and turns or whatever the hell the official names for those things are in hopes of bringing the honor to their respective god.

“Gooooood morning, Sochi!” Ryan Seacrest greeted the roaring fans, waving happily at the crowd from his podium in the arena. The podium, which had had the Russian flag draped across for the Opening Ceremony, was instead adorned in the the traditional colors of Liam Neeson’s and Chiwetel’s worshippers, respectively. “How is everyone today?”

There was an unintelligible noise as everyone tried to respond in unison.

“Great!” Ryan said. His dead eyes betrayed his cheery smile. “Now, the first event of today is singles figure skating, headed by Jennifer Lawrence under Neeson and Lupita Nyong’o under--”

“Wait!” someone suddenly shouted, sprinting through the audience and shoving people aside to get to the podium.

Everyone gasped. It was……………………………………………….…………………………………...James Franco!

(Unfortunately, James Franco did not have a _My Immortal_ “what the hell are you doing you motherfuckers” moment, though I did almost accidentally type Dumbledore in that last line.)

“James?” Don said in bewilderment, watching his beloved try to violently wrestle the microphone away from Ryan Seacrest. Next to him, Steve Harvey felt his blood run cold. He had a bad feeling about what this Franco kid was about to do, and what it would mean for Don. Damn him, he _warned_ that boy.

“Mr. Franco, this is highly unorthodox…” Ryan said, frowning, but James ignored him.

“Before the games begin, I have something important to say,” James said into the microphone. He took a deep breath. “I’ve recently begun dabbling in film-making, and I’d like to show my latest project now, if that’s alright with everyone.”

Ryan looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Franco--"

“This is dedicated to the love of my life, Don Cheadle,” James continued, pointing to Don’s spot in the audience. Don waved awkwardly. “Hit it, LL Cool J!” James exclaimed.

While Ryan pondered why LL could’ve possibly ever betrayed him like this, the lights of the stadium dimmed and the large screen that was usually used to replay highlights of the event lit up. A video like the one from episode 17 of _90210_ , “Life’s a Drag” began to play, soft piano music playing over clips of James and Don together. If you have Netflix, I recommend watching from 28:03 onward to understand this scene fully.

It was quite the heart-warming scene. “I’m in it too?” Don asked James, who, while the video was playing, had run up to sit next to Don.

“Just you wait,” James said.

But then James’s mouth appeared on screen, whispering “I love you”, and suddenly the video did a complete 180. The piano music was replaced with hardcore rock, and the happy images of James and Don with a dark supply closet. A dark supply closet that James and Don suddenly appeared in.

Don’s heart almost stopped. He knew what this was.

_How had he not noticed the video camera?_

“You filmed us having _sex_?!” Don shouted at James, horrified, as what was essentially their sex tape began playing onscreen.

James looked confused. “Aren’t you happy? Now everyone knows that we’re in love!” He tried to take Don’s hand, but Don hit it away.

“How could you do this to me? To _us_?” Don yelled. “I--I never want to see you again!” He ran off, sobbing.

“Don!” James yelled after him. “ _Don_!” He tried to go after Don, but Steve Harvey held him back.

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” he hissed at James.

The video was shut off, much to everyone’s relief, and a very uncomfortable Ryan Seacrest relayed to the audience that the games were cancelled for the day so everyone could try to forget what they had just seen, ie, a nude James Franco. Roofies, as he said, were available on the way out for everyone who needed an extra kick to help repress this memory forever.

There was someone else in the crowd, though, who was distraught for an entirely different reason.

"Where in the world is Randy Jackson," Simon Cowell breathed to himself, scanning the masses fruitlessly for his closest friend who had spent the last few days seemingly avoiding him at all costs.

* * *

**James Franco** @ jamesfrancotv  
copies of my sex tape will be available in the lobby of hotel rwanda tonight and tomorrow!

**Joe Biden** @ GoGoGoJOE  
"I acted like it didn't bother me, but it's killing me inside." -Anonymous  
  
(retweeted by **Don Cheadle** )  
(retweeted by **Simon Cowell** )

**Owl Jolson** @ OwlJolsonVEVO  
i love to singa

* * *

Randy Jackson supposed that if you had to have anyone witness your accidental slaying of Tim Allen, Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson was the right kind of guy for it. After the events on the rooftop, he had acted as a guide, an accomplice; he had covered for Randy when they made their way back to the party and Simon questioned where Randy had been. He had given Randy a ride back to Hotel Rwanda and, hell, he’d even stayed with Randy until he fell asleep. Dwayne had acted as more than an accomplice. Dwayne had acted as a friend.

Randy just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to make of Dwayne’s insistence on “training him to become Santa Claus”.

“You’re kidding, right, dawg?” Randy said, looking at Dwayne incredulously while Dwayne held out a literal goddamn Santa suit. He had a sneaking suspicion it was the same one that Tim Allen had been wearing before his dive off of Simon’s holiday home. “No way in _fuck_ am I putting that on.”

Dwayne shook the suit aggressively at Randy. “The fuck you are,” he said. “It’s in the rules. It’s the clause. You killed Santa--Tim Allen--so now you’re Santa.” He threw the mass of red fabric and white fur at Randy. “Now put on the goddamn suit, Randy.”

Begrudgingly, Randy pulled the heavy coat on over his button-up. “I feel like an asshole,” he told Dwayne.

Dwayne just smiled. Secretly, he was glad that, if anyone had to take Tim’s place, it was Randy. The council of fairy tale beings was starting to become a little boring with the same people every week. Besides, Tim couldn’t bake for shit and the muffins he brought to every meeting were always dry and tasteless.

“Now, as the Tooth Fairy,” Dwayne began, politely averting his gaze as Dwayne changed into the Santa Claus costume, “I’ve taken it on as my duty to show you the ropes of being a member of the Mythical Being League.”

Did I mention Dwayne is the Tooth Fairy. That’s probably an important part of the plot here. I’ll repeat it: Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson is the Tooth Fairy.

Suddenly, the tune of the popular song from _Mulan_ “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” began to play out of seemingly nowhere, and Dwayne was suddenly holding two bamboo sticks and dressed like an ancient Chinese warrior. What followed can only be described as the [entire musical number from _Mulan_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSS5dEeMX64), except in place of “a man”, Dwayne sung “Santa Claus”. The effect was somewhat as follows: “ _You're the saddest celeb I ever met/But you can bet before we're through/Mister, I'll make Santa Claus out of you.”_ Dwayne also pelted Randy with cookies and milk and forced him to make toys throughout the entire song, too. It was pretty impressive.

By the end, both men were out of breath and Randy couldn’t help the disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “So, dawg, you’re going to teach me how to be Santa?” he asked, amused.

“Randy, my friend,” Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson said, with a glimmer in his eye that might’ve been a tear, “I’m going to teach you how to be a _star_.”

* * *

“ _1 - 20 of 229 Works in_[ _Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan_](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Chris%20Evans*s*Sebastian%20Stan),” Sebastian breathed, staring at his phone screen reverently. “Oh...my God…”

* * *

Czarbucks was packed, as was to be expected--it was the day of the official opening of the Olympic games, and even though the ones of the day had been cancelled, almost every spectator and fan decided to stop by to get their deliciously overpriced coffee to bring along with them in the freezing stands to watch the athletes do last minute practice.

Coach Mark Ruffalo was one of these people, having graciously volunteered to run out last minute to get Chris and Sebastian lattes of their own before they were due to hit the ski slopes for practice (the ski competitions not starting until the following day). Bless his fatherly soul. He was, however, sincerely regretting it, as he had been waiting in line for about twenty minutes now and it did not appear to be getting any shorter. _Those Vodka Mochas better be worth it,_ he thought resignedly.

The bell above the shop door tinkled, indicating that someone was entering, and an excited voice suddenly shouted. “Mark, old sport! I can’t believe it!”

Mark Ruffalo whirled around and came face to face with one of his oldest and greatest friends, Leonardo DiCaprio, who was striding towards him with a beatific smile on his equally beatific face. “Leo!” Mark exclaimed happily, rushing to hug the man. “I haven’t seen you since--”

“--the climate change awareness march in New York,” Leo finished for him, beaming and patting him on the back. “I’ve missed you, old sport.” Mark could just make out a chain around Leo’s neck, and his heart swelled; Leo still had ⅓ of the friendship necklaces that the two of them and Tobey Maguire had exchanged back in the days of their youth. Mark reminisced briefly about all the good times he, Leo, and Tobey had shared--the feminist rallies, the sleepovers, the time they’d held a bake sale to raise money for their anti-whaling campaign, the night they’d spent in prison for chaining themselves to a tree to prevent it from being cut down… Their trio had truly been an unstoppable force of social justice and unbreakable comradery.

“What are you doing in Sochi?” Mark asked him happily, forgetting all about the lattes he’d promised Chris and Sebastian.

“Tobey wanted to come up to see the games, and,” Leo suddenly looked haunted, turning his gaze to the window as though searching for something a long distance away, “and I came to find a woman I once loved. A woman I still love.”

As Leo continued to gaze dramatically out the window at stoplight in the street that had lit up green, Mark shuffled uncomfortably. It suddenly struck him how oddly Leo was dressed--he was wearing a gaudy pink rag of a suit that looked like he’d stolen it straight off the set of _The Great Gatsby_. And if he wasn’t mistaken, the yellow convertible parked out in front of Czarbucks looked suspiciously like it had been too.

(This was because Leo _had_ stolen the suit and the car straight off the set of _The Great Gatsby_.)

“A woman?” Mark said, confused. “Kate Winslet? I know you had a thing for her during _Titanic_ , Leo, but that was years ag--”

But Leo had already walked away and out the doors of Czarbucks, ignoring Mark entirely and muttering something about repeating the past with his gaze fixed intensely on the stoplight. Mark couldn’t dwell on it for long, though, because it was finally his turn at the register and he was probably going to be late getting back as it was.

As he carried the caffeinated Russian delicacies to the car a few minutes later, Mark resolved one thing--he was going to text Tobey as soon as possible to find out what the hell was wrong with their old friend.

* * *

**Queen Elizabeth II** @ QueenLizzie2  
RT this for an indirect

(retweeted by **Barack Obama** )  
(retweeted by **Joe Biden** )

**Queen Elizabeth II** @QueenLizzie2  
@BarackAndRoll tbh you’re one of my best friends, love our presidential/royal sleepovers. bar later? :-*

**Barack Obama** @BarackAndRoll  
@QueenLizzie2 lol lyt liz, bar sounds great! what time?

**Michelle Obama** @GoToMicHELLe  
@BarackAndRoll @QueenLizzie2 can @RunningUpThatHILL and i join in on this action too?

**Hillary Clinton** @RunningUpThatHILL  
@GoToMicHELLe @BarackAndRoll @QueenLizzie2 don’t forget bill!

**Bill Clinton** @BILLofrights  
@GoToMicHELLe @BarackAndRoll @QueenLizzie2 @RunningUpThatHILL count me in too guys!

**Mitt Romney** @TalkShitGetMITT  
@BILLofrights @GoToMicHELLe @BarackAndRoll @QueenLizzie2 @RunningUpThatHILL don’t leave out your favorite republican!

**Queen Elizabeth II** @QueenLizzie2  
@TalkShitGetMITT @BILLofrights @GoToMicHELLe @BarackAndRoll @RunningUpThatHILL lol of course :-*

**Joe Biden** @GoGoGoJoe  
@QueenLizzie2 haha liz probably a mistake but you never did my indirect!!! haha

**Joe Biden** @GoGoJoeBiden  
@QueenLizzie2 @TalkShitGetMITT @BILLofrights @GoToMicHELLe @BarackAndRoll @RunningUpThatHILL haha guys can i come to the bar too??!!

**Barack Obama** @BarackAndRoll  
://////

**Queen Elizabeth II** @QueenLizzie2  
some people just cant take a hint……..but that’s #noneofmybusiness

**Barack Obama** @BarackAndRoll  
@QueenLizzie2 lmao tell me about it

**Joe Biden** @GoGoJoeBiden  
@BarackAndRoll @QueenLizzie2 guys are you talking about me :(

**Joe Biden** @GoGoJoeBiden  
“Isn’t it sad when you get hurt so much, you can finally say ‘I’m used to it’?” -anonymous

* * *

Michael Meyers, Eddie Murphey, and Antonio Banderas took to being in the Mackle No More League like ducks took to water.

That is, if the ducks couldn’t swim and the water was on fire.

“I just don’t understand what learning how to use a Keurig machine has to do with hunting down You-Know-Who,” Michael sighed, as Ben walked him through the process of how to heat up the water and insert the delicious coffee packet into the machine for the fourth time that hour.

“Two things,” Cuba said. “One, you’re not in fucking _Harry Potter_. Just call him Macklemore. Two, everyone should know how to make a cup of coffee.” Privately, Cuba wished he had thought of calling Macklemore You-Know-Who.

“At least you’re not being forced to alphabetize Ludacris’s Lana Del Rey collection,” Eddie called across the room, where he and Antonio were sorting through a rather large stack of records. “I didn’t even know she had this many albums,” he added.

“That’s because you’re not a true fan,” Ludacris sniffed, not even bothering to look up from the latest edition of _Seventeen_ magazine, which he only bought because their was an interview with Lana about her performance at the opening ceremony in it. _Not_ because of the “Find Out If He’s Really Into You!” quiz like Cuba had suggested.

The three _Shrek_ stars sighed and resigned themselves to their fate via Mackle No More League training.

“One thing to be warned of, about the League,” Ludacris said to the three men, quietly so Terrence wouldn’t hear them from the other side of the room. “Terrence _does_ play favorites.”

Terrence’s head shot up, and he glared at Ludacris. “You’re wrong, Luda,” he sniffed. “I love all the League _equally_.”

* * *

_** EARLIER THAT DAY ** _

“I don’t care for Zach,” Terrence said to Ben, taking a long, pensive sip out of his martini glass.

* * *

**_PRESENT_ **

Ludacris rolled his eyes.

“Alright, Michael, good job!” Ben suddenly exclaimed happily as Michael Meyers successfully made his sixteenth cup of Keurig coffee of the day. “Definitely an improvement. Let’s take it from the top, though--always room for improvement!”

“We’ve made a huge mistake,” Michael sighed, not even realizing that this line is so many degrees of an _Arrested Development_ reference.

The hotel room door opened, and Zach walked in, looking confused. “Has anyone seen my phone?” he asked the room at large. “I was halfway to Czarbucks when I realized I didn’t have it.”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Chris Pine said, suddenly emerging in the doorway behind Zach without warning. In his hand was Zach’s phone. He was glaring. “You left it on the table at breakfast and I was about to return it when I saw _these_.” He unlocked the phone (Zach really needed a new password) and pulled up the messages app, brandishing it in Zach’s face. On it were the multiple texts James Franco had repeatedly sent him, despite Zach's clear lack of interest in him and making sure that his read receipts were on so James could see he was deliberately being ignored.

“'Hey, Zach," Chris read aloud in a weird falsetto, "'Remember me, the guy who saved your life? lol. We should go out for drinks sometime!!'" Chris's glare intensified. "Who’s [junglejames4322@yahoo.com](mailto:junglejames4322@yahoo.com)?” he asked angrily, pointing to the contact name.

“It’s just James Franco,” Zach said, bewildered. He made to grab for his phone, but Chris pulled it back. The rest of the League watched the exchange somewhat awkwardly.

“ _Just_ James Franco?” Chris exclaimed. “He asked you out, Zach!”

“Why do you _care_?” Zach shouted back, surprising himself at how angry he was getting. "So what if someone asks me out?"

The fight seemed to go out of Chris. “Look, Zach,” he said, with a sigh. “If you want to see other people, I understand. But you could at least have the decency to _break up with me_ before you start--”

_Back the fuck up_ , Zach thought. “Back the fuck up,” Zach said. “ _Break up with you_? What are you...” He frowned at Chris. “We’re not--we’re not dating, Chris.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Wow, okay, of all the shittiest ways people have dumped me, that’s probably up near the top of the li--”

“We were _dating_?”

“Um, yeah. Since, like, the end of filming _Into Darkness_?” Chris laughed bitterly. “Oh, I see. We're going to go about this the ‘let’s-pretend-it-never-happened’ way?”

Zach’s mind whirled. What on Earth was Chris talking about? They hadn’t been--

The “hey babe”s. The constant doting. The hand-holding. The flirty texts and shirtless selfies Chris kept sending him. The kiss during the Opening Ceremony. The fancy dinners Chris kept taking him on. How jealous Chris had seemed when James Franco saved Zach. Chris’s offer of a blowjo--okay, maybe Zach should’ve guessed it by the last one.

Zach had thought Chris was _joking_ when he asked him out during the _Star Trek: Into Darkness_ rap-party.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” Zach said, horrified at himself. But Chris was already retreating back down the hallway. In a scene worthy of one of those Nicholas Sparks dramas, Zach threw all caution into the wind and sprinted after him, dramatically yelling “ _Chris_!”

Terrence, Ben, Cuba, Ludacris, Michael, Eddie, and Antonio watched the proceedings with a mixture of curiosity and interest. “Wow, okay,” Cuba said. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“If they get arrested for public indecency,” Terrence remarked mildly, craning his neck around the doorway to see Chris and Zach locked in a heated embrace that could only be described as a _their tongues battled for dominance_ worthy moment, “...which it looks like they will, I’m not paying to spring either of their asses from jail.”

* * *

The day at the slopes had been a long one, and by 4 pm, Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan were ready to go back to their hotel room and pass out. "You guys were _incredible_ today," Coach Mark Ruffalo gushed, beaming at them as he helped to pack up their skis. "You’ll get the gold for sure!”

"Silver, maybe," Sebastian sighed, zipping up his bright orange puffy jacket that was vaguely reminiscent of the one he wore in the utter masterpiece of a film,  _Hot Tub Time Machine_. "I doubt we'll beat Emma and Scarlett. Chris and I are good, Coach Ruffalo, but they're better." He swung his bag up onto his shoulder, waiting for Chris to finish packing up.

Coach Ruffalo rolled his eyes. "Stone and Johansson may be good," he said, "but unless RDJ manages to come up with a routine for them that’s halfway as decent as ours, there's no way you're losing to them."

"Yeah, Seb," Chris said with a smile, zipping up his heavy jacket, "Coach is right. And besides--we're at the _Olympics_! Part of the experience is just being here!"

His friends' shared excitement was infectious, and Sebastian couldn't help but crack a smile too. "Alright, now, both of you to the locker rooms," Coach Ruffalo said, shooing them away playfully.

As he watched Chris and Sebastian’s retreating backs, Mark sighed a little. As he had promised himself earlier, he did indeed text Tobey, and his friend’s reply confirmed his worst suspicions--just like back in the 90’s with _Titanic_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ or in 2010 with _Inception_ , Leo had immersed himself so entirely in his role he could no longer distinguish fiction from reality. Though, Mark supposed he should be grateful it was with a movie like _Gatsby_ this time; dealing with a wannabe Jay Gatsby was better than having to listen to Leo talk only in Old English or offering to draw people like one of his French girls for five months.

Regardless, he and Tobey needed to act fast if they wanted to help their friend.

_Club G!ay tonight at 8_ , he texted Tobey, _Tell Leo. We’re staging an intervention._

* * *

Sebastian wasn’t sure why the Olympics committee even bothered giving the ski teams their own locker room. They were the same distance from the slopes that the hotel was, for one thing, except in the opposite direction. The skis were also too big for the lockers. And they really only needed two lockers per both teams, rather than the fifty each there was instead. Overall, it was a pretty large waste of money on the Olympic Committee’s part. Nevertheless, Sebastian and Chris headed there anyway after Coach Ruffalo dismissed them to change out of their skiing gear and attempt to shove their skis into their lockers (which turned out to be large enough to hold the skis, as long as you didn’t try to open the locker ever again afterwards).

“Mark booked us dinner at that fancy French place tonight,” Chris said, while Sebastian unlaced his boots with his back to him. “ _Le Petit Prince_ , I think it’s called? Reservation’s in a few hours.”

Sebastian paused, looking pensive. “The one next door to the gay club?” he asked, immediately regretting even having the ability to speak as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Uh,” Chris said, “maybe?”

Sebastian gave a fake laugh and turned to Chris, intending to cover up the fact that not only did he know where the gay club was but that he also happened to have spent a good portion of their time in Sochi there, but was instead made speechless by the sight of Chris stripped down to his boxers and taking off his shirt yet again. I don’t know why I even bother writing him non-shirtless anyway.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Sebastian thought articulately, as a silence stretched between them. _Why does this keep happening to me_.

“Are you okay, Seb?” Chris said, looking at him worriedly while Sebastian pretended he wasn’t totally checking him out.

Sebastian took a deep breath, eyes still fixated on Chris's bare ( _so bare_ ) chest to avoid looking lower, and nodded. "Uh. Yeah. I'm. I'm perfect." It finally struck him that, in their years of filming together, skiing together, and now rooming together, Chris had never been so lax with clothing as he had been since they arrived in Sochi. Especially now. It was nice, to say the least. Nice, and increasingly becoming a problem for certain parts of Sebastian.

Chris tossed his shirt aside carelessly, walking across the locker room to him with a concerned look on his face. "You looked flushed," he said worriedly. "Do you feel okay? Do you need to lie down?"

It took every ounce of willpower in Sebastian's body to glance away from Chris's chest and up at his face. "Yeah, I think that must be it, I—" Chris was practically cornering him against the lockers now.

Chris grabbed Sebastian's wrist, feeling it gently. "Your pulse is racing," he said, voice low. "Are you—?"

Most likely due to the fact there was a half-nude (and extremely fit) Chris Evans less than an inch away from him holding his wrist, something snapped inside of Sebastian. "Jesus, Chris, it's because of you, okay?" Sebastian said, his face burning. "You're parading around here exploiting how, how _obviously gay for you_ I am and—"

“Sebastian,” Chris interrupted, sounding disappointed, and Sebastian was taken aback at his sudden change in tone. “I was trying to--” He blushed, Jesus, he was _blushing_. “Chris Pine said this would work.”

“What would work?” Sebastian said, torn between horror at himself for not shutting up and curiosity as to what the hell Chris was talking about.

“I like you, too,” Chris said. He was still blushing, and the entire universe must be spinning off its axis because _Chris was blushing._ “And I was trying to--well, trying to see if you were. Interested,” he finished lamely.

Sebastian was silent for a few long seconds. “...You asked for advice on how to get into my pants?” he said, incredulously.

“Shut up,” Chris groaned.

“You’re an idiot,” Sebastian said fondly, and then Chris was kissing him.

Sebastian, on his part, managed not to swoon. Just managed.

Chris’s mouth was warm, Sebastian thought happily, and his lips were soft, and they slotted together perfectly with his in a way that was almost overwhelming. He made a soft noise in the back of his throat and Chris deepened the kiss, emboldened by it.

It was when he pushed Sebastian back against the lockers that Chris broke away, breathing heavily. He moved to mouth at the underside of Sebastian's jaw, his day’s worth of stubble catching and dragging on the skin. "Chris," Sebastian almost moaned. Chris cupped his jaw, tilting it back gently to have better access to mouth and bite along it as he pleased. "You're—you're going to give me marks," Sebastian said weakly, and by the way Chris was looking at him, it seemed that neither of them were entirely opposed to that possibility.

Chris laughed, and it reverberated against Sebastian's throat and felt _very nice_. He wondered how Chris's voice would feel vibrating against other parts of him. He wanted Chris to hold him against the lockers, he wanted Chris to undress him, he wanted Chris to move that mouth down his body and whisper things to him and-- Chris must've seen the way Sebastian's eyes had darkened, because his lips were brushing the shell of his ear and his fingers were at his collar. "Just tell me what you want," he whispered, "and I'll give it to you, Sebastian. Anything."

Chris's voice was thick with arousal, and it made Sebastian shiver not unpleasantly to hear his name in it. He hummed thoughtfully. “Anything?”

Chris's fingers brushed down Sebastian's shirt, undoing the buttons as he went. “Mhmm.”

Sebastian gave Chris a once-over, contemplating. Chris had lost the beard not long before Sochi and had already dyed his hair a lighter blond to prepare for the filming of _Cap 3_ , so he looked even more Steve Rogers than usual. It wasn’t exactly unappealing. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sebastian realized he might have more in common with Bucky Barnes than he previously thought.

And, hey, that was an idea.

“Well,” Sebastian said slowly, "Have you ever considered roleplaying?"

Chris smirked.

* * *

"Look, Mr. Ian! I shot it right into the sky! You think the Little League will accept me now?" Asked a wide-eyed Evan Peters as he peered under the brim of his lil leather hat. A baseball flew across the snowy field and into a smattering of pine trees in the distance. Home run, indeed.

Ian beamed. "Of course, even though you are much too old to be playing Little League, I'm sure they'll put you on the team this year." Little did the young mutant know, Sir McKellan had actually been controlling the (metal) baseball bat used to propel the ball so far. But, he figured, some things were just meant to be kept secret.

Before another pitch could be made, Patrick waltzed over from the stands with a tray of hot chocolate. (Yes, it's cold now. Let us live.) "How are my two favorite boys doing?" He passed a mug to each pair of the awaiting, grateful hands, joy bursting from his orifices. It was times like this that made it seem as if they had already adopted their son, had already annihilated the queen, and had already started on a long and beautiful path through fatherhood with his husband. Of course, this feeling usually dissipated with the pesky reminder that, despite their efforts, the queen was still alive and well, tearing them away from their spry child of the gods.

This time, that reminder came in the form of a text on Evan's phone. "Man," the AHS star whined. "The orphanage needs me back in an hour. I totally just got here! This curfew is bogus."

"Now, now, young one." Ian chided, a hand on his pseudo-son's back. "Don't get into any trouble on our account. There will always be time for you to spend with us in the future. For now, lets make the most of what we have, alright? You can get to the orphanage pretty fast, and it's not even sundown yet." He kneeled in the dead grass again. "Go over there and show Patrick your hit." He turned his head slightly to wink at his partner as Evan gulped down the rest of his beverage and ran towards the makeshift first base.

After a few more pitches, hits, and homeruns, it was officially Very Late, and time to head home. Evan set down the bat and gave the elders their hugs before zooming off into the night.

"Walk with him. It's getting dark sooner than anticipated. He may be clever and aloof, but I don't want anyone harming our s-son." Patrick took a shuddering breath. "Ask him about the orphanage. Find out if they're treating him well. Also, ask him if thin-mints are still his favorite Girl Scout cookie. I just ordered fifteen boxes." He laid a kiss on the other's cheek. "I'll see you at dinner."

Ian did as ordered and ran after him. "Hey! What's the rush?" Evan stopped in his tracks.

"I'm always this fast. It's what I do." Ian guffawed at this, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders. "You're coming with me?"

Ian rubbed a hand under his scruffy chin. "Yes, you may be old enough to have a later curfew than the other kids, but that doesn't mean I'm just gonna let you walk around the streets of Russia by yourself. There's a royal baby on the loose as we speak, I hear. Anything could happen to you." He shook his head. His husband's ever present paranoia was getting to him again. "But, enough about that, how have things been going? Anyone giving you a hard time?"

Evan shrugged. "Nah, everyone's pretty nice." A small smile appeared on his face. "Very nice, actually."

Ian took note of the change in his almost-child's expression. "Heh heh, who's got you all happy? Anyone you should be telling me about?"

The youth's face reddened. "No thnx. It's...complicated."

"Come on! We have..." He checked his watch. "Okay, we actually don't have much time, but perhaps we could go into a nice, quick flashback so you can explain?"

Evan was flustered at this point, not wanting to talk about something so...vulgar, with a man who was practically his father. "O-okay, but, don't tell Patrick, alright? I wouldn't be able to live it down." Ian nodded immediately. He knew how overbearing his mate could be over such affairs. He watched as the boy took a deep breath. "You, uh, remember last year? When you walked in on me and--"

"Yes, you and Nicholas! With great detail!" It wasn't everyday he caught his only son quite literally fucking Nicholas Hoult up the ass against a wall in the kitchen, so when it occasionally did happen, the image ingrained itself into his aging mind. "Did you ever ask him out?"

"Well, you see," he explained, looking anywhere but Ian. "I'm kinda in a bind right now. There are these three gays at the orphanage who all called dibs on me two seconds after I walked in. Now they're fighting for my honor or some shit." He rubbed a claw over his face. "Thing is, I don't even know which one i want! And they've all fucked each other at some point, so there's definitely some baggage from that." This was certainly an understatement. Daniel Radcliffe had been utterly heartbroken after his _Kill Your Darlings_ costar/boyfriend, Dane Dehaan, ditched him for the fluffy haired stylings of Andrew Garfield while filming _The Amazing Spider-Man 2_. So heartbroken, in fact, that he had devised a dastardly plan to end all dastardly plans to break them up for once and for all. It took quite a bit of convincing, but with enough effort, he got Jamie Foxx to cockblock with the power of his fatherly presence and heavenly singing voice. Also by sitting in between them during interviews.

After three months of dating, they too had broken up, leaving things rather uncomfortable at the orphanage. To make matters even worse, Andrew and Daniel had, at some point in the distant past, slept together just for the hell of it. Evan's arrival was a beacon of hope, not only for their loins, but for some much needed closure.

Dane had approached him first, all smooth talk and smoldering looks as he showed the young orphan around on the first night. "This is where Ms. Hannigan--I mean Ms. Betty neglects to feed us, this is where she makes us do her laundry, and this," he pointed a delicate finger at a closed door with a sign hanging on it that read "KEEP OUT", "is her bedroom, which is the only place in this entire shitshow that has a bed that isn't made out of rocks and duct tape. A perfect place for you and me to have sex, am I right?"

Evan gulped. "Um, what?"

That's when Andrew had come in. "Jeez, Dane, you couldn't have let the poor guy get settled in before you start propositioning him?" He pushed the smaller man out of the way and faced the newcomer. "I am so sorry. I'm Andrew, and, because I'm a gentleman, I'm gonna wait until tomorrowto seduce you, okay?" He grinned, taking out a comb and raking it through his hair. Both Dane and Evan pushed down the urge to touch it.

Evan shook the inappropriate thought out of his head. "W-why do you want to--" He was cut off by Daniel swooping in from the rafters.

"Back off you inbreeding fucks! I have no idea why Ms. Betty chose _you two_  to run the welcoming committee, but I'm not having it!" He wrapped a warm arm around the confused youth. "My name's Daniel, and I--my gosh! You're so pale! You haven't eaten in days, have you?" Before Evan could inform him that he had, in fact, just had lunch, and that the reason he was pale was because of how terrified he was about living in an orphanage run by a sociopath, Daniel had embraced him fully, making him feel almost euphoric. Maybe he could pretend to be starving, if only for a bit.

"Listen, Danny-boy," Cried a frustrated Andrew. "You're the one who needs to _back-off_. You've always been the one who needs to learn how to let go. Case in point: you still bitch about Dane--"

"This is seriously not the time to be talking about this, we have a guest!"

"I wouldn't care if the goddamn queen was here." Evan had to roll his eyes at that. "It's true! You're just a little bitch-baby!"

Daniel gasped. "How dare you!" He took our his wand. "Fellatio!"

Suddenly, Andrew was on his knees in front of Daniel, unzipping his fly. "The fuck?" He looked up, nostalgia and something that looked a bit like arousal in his eyes. "You haven't used that spell since we fucked that one time."

The part-time wizard winked. "I like to save that one just for you, Spidey."

Dane's eye (amongst other things) twitched. "Hey! How come you never used that one on me? And, only _I_  can call him Spidey!"

The thin line on Daniel's face slowly broke into a tentative smile. "You're welcome to join us, if you like." Andrew started to feast. " _Oh, god_. You, can too, Evvvvvvvvvvvv."

And, with that, the octotwink (eight legs in all) foursome began.

"Well," chirped Ian. "That was. Yeah, I get what you meant by a bind." He patted Evan, whose face had gotten even redder by the end of the story, on the back. "Whatever you do, just trust your gut." They were in front of the orphanage by now, ignoring the lot of stray cats that called it's front steps home.

The young ward cleared his throat, hoping that the subject would be completely dropped by the time of their next meeting. He retuned the pat and shuffled up the stairs, accidentally stepping on one of the feline's tails. It made an unholy sound.  

"I'll see ya, da--Mr. Ian," called Evan, with a hint of a tear or two in his eye. Ian wiped a couple of his own.

"Next Friday, my boy, next Friday." The fetus waved before disappearing into the building, not to be seen by his almost-pops for another bitter seven days. Dadneto bowed his head. This was always the worst part.

Stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, he walked back to his and his husband's cottage/secret lair, side stepping the snow-covered litter scattered about the sidewalk. _Maybe by next week_ , he thought. _Maybe, just maybe, he'll be ours_.

Once inside the orphanage, Evan hung his hole-ridden jacket on a beat-up coatrack. It snapped in two the second it was secured onto the branch. He groaned. Ms. Betty was gonna throw a fit.

After a half-assed attempt at putting the thing back together, he dumped it into the trash can and decided that he would just have to earn the money to buy a new one. He strolled on down the hallway, high-fiving Michael Cera as he exited the kitchen with a pot of something that smelled like rotten eggs and saline tears.

In the two years he had been at the orphanage, he had become the HBIC, the one that the younger boys looked up to, and the one that the older ones respected. Whether this was due to his speediness, his dick fingers, or his face, he didn't care. It definitely had it's perks.

But, he realized as he passed a sleeping Ms. Betty with a bottle clutched in her wrinkly hand, it also had it's downsides. He was always the first to be called out by the caretaker (who the boys all called the scaretaker behind her back), and always chosen to do the grossest chores. He shuddered at the memory of the time he had to go dumpster diving to find the wench's missing gold tooth.

He pushed the creaky door open of the dungeon in which the boys slept. He raised his claw at the denizens, who acknowledged him with various shouts of his name and "how did it go"'s. They all knew how close he was to getting adopted, and couldn't be happier for him.

Betty White emerged from her drunken stupor. "The inspectors are coming. Ready the artillery and hide the marijaunas. You!" She pointed at Evan. "Set up one of the bunks. They're bringing a new brat with 'em. He apparently was almost incarcerated for murder, so you better be nice if you know what's better for you, lol." She left, laughing to herself before choking on what was most likely her dentures.

The only thing the boys could think was, _Fuck_.

Finn Wittrock bounced on the balls of his feet next to the inspector as he rang the doorbell to the orphanage. "I'm so excited!" He rubbed his numb hands together. "I heard that it's just like summer camp. We'll get to sing songs, and go on adventures, and bury our camp counselor alive..."

"Look, buddy," grunted the inspector. "No funny business here, alright? This is your last option, since clearly you're unstable living by yourself."

Finn twirled a lock of his shiny hair. It was so shiny. "We'll just see about that, won't we?" It was then that the door burst open, Betty leaning against the frame wearing a satin bathrobe.

"Why, hello there, inspector. Why don't you come on in?"

The inspector internally screamed, but entered regardless. Finn followed suit, taking in his surroundings with gusto. The place needed some redecorating, but it would do.

Betty lead the inspector upstairs, shielding his eyes away from anything that looked even relatively illegal (which was everything). The newbie was left to his devices, making his way through the building towards the sound of voices.

It lead him to the dungeon, where the boys were rough housing and trying to get Michael Cera's head out from being stuck in the window. "Hello?" They all turned to him, all noises growing faint. Evan was the first to speak.

"Finn? You're the new guy?"

He grinned at his TV adversary. "Why, yes I am. It's nice to see a familiar face around here."

"But, they said you were a murderer, which you aren't. 'Least not in real life, right?"

Finn opened his mouth to speak when the inspector returned with a clipboard marked with red gripped in his hands, Betty hot on his heels.

"I have come to the conclusion that this place is unsuitable for any life. How these poor children have been able to survive here for god knows how long is beyond me. You should be in prison, right now, lady. And, stop grabbing my ass!" He glared at her and pulled out his phone. "I'm calling Social Services. This place is getting shut down!" An ax to the head cut him off before he was able to finish dialing the number. He fell to the carpet, blood leaking out of his occipital. Finn dropped the soiled ax to the ground, feeling...cathartic.

Everyone gaped at him. "What?" He was met with silence. "That guy was being an asshole."

This was apparently a suitable enough answer, as everyone went back to their business. Betty passed out on the sofa, and the men stuffed the dead body into the incinerator shoot. Case closed.

"It's the hard-knock life, fellas." He took the liquor bottle out of Betty's limp hand and poured one out to his dying soul.

Daniel shook his head in defeat. "You got that right, hard-knock as fuck."

"Uh," Finn began as he set down his bag. "What does this hard-knock life that you speak of mean?"

Evan refrained from cackling. "It means our lives are horse shit. Hit it boys!"

The aforementioned boys acquiesced, all filing out of the crowded room and into the open space of the REC (Read, Exercise, Cry) room, as upbeat music began to play from out of nowhere. Or Daniel's phone where he had the full Annie soundtrack downloaded.

Andrew began to quake. "No...not again..."

Evan obtained a microphone from god knows where. "It's the hard-knock life for us, it's the hard-knock life for us!"

Michael Cera crawled from under an ottoman. "'Steada treated:"

The juveniles were prepared. "We get tricked!"

He rubbed the dust bunnies out of his hair as he sang, "'steada kisses:"

"We get kicked!"

Evan belted into the microphone, "It's the hard-knock li--"

"What the actual FUCK is going on here?!" It was Betty. _Huh, so she wasn't actually dead_ , the boys realized. _Who knew_. "I will have NO singing after the hour of..." She checked her watch. "10 PM! Go to bed you sewer rats!" She stomped to her own room, slamming the door, which caused the KEEP OUT sign to fall to the ground with a _thud_. One of the younger twinks, Hansel Eggbert, eyes widened with fear,

It was silent for a moment before Dane gently grabbed the mic from the previous boy's claws. "Empty-bellied life!"

Andrew began to sob. "No, not you too! We had to listen to this song for _eight irreplaceable months._  It's the reason we broke up, Dane! If you keep singing--"

Dane retaliated with, "rotten, smelly life!" Daniel couldn't help but smirk at his romantic rival's demise.

He chimed in with, "filled with sorrow life!" And, Evan finishing with "no tomorrow life!"

Anal Expert, the most recent orphanage-dweller besides Finn, whined as he sat by the fireplace, "Santa Claus we never see..."  

"Santa Claus? What's that? Who's he?!" Sung the orphans. Somewhere, in an abandoned warehouse, Randy Jackson shivered.

"Dwayne! I can't do it anymore! It's too hard!"

The Rock clenched his fists. "You MUST! It's for the sake of every little boy and girl in the world! Now, GET. DOWN. THAT. CHIMNEY!"

Back at the orphanage, the gays continued to gleefully sing their tune, dancing and spinning about, Daniel taking the reigns on the performance.

* * *

**Dane Dehaan** @ DaneDehaan  
I like GIRLS.

* * *

"Oh man, this is going to be so fuckin good," Ludacris cackled, as Cuba giggled beside him.

“Okay, okay,” Cuba said, “Are you sure you can do it?”

Ludacris narrowed his eyes at the laptop screen in front of them and then typed a few times on the keyboard. “[hacker voice] I’m in,” he said, as Zach’s twitter account suddenly popped up on the screen. Cuba watched in awe. Who knew hacking twitters was so easy.

The unstoppable duo of Cubacris eagerly clicked on “New Tweet”, having spent all week planning to pull the prank of the century on Zach. Slowly and carefully, they typed what was sure to be comedy gold into the box. Slowly and carefully, they hit “tweet”.

**Zachary Quinto** @ QuintoBean  
im gay

Cubacris began giggling, and then suddenly they fell silent as realization dawned on them. "...Wait...." Cuba said.

* * *

**Joe Biden** @ GoGoGoJOE  
"Sorry for being so fucked up. Sorry for being such a failure. Sorry for being such a disgrace. Sorry for being me." -Anonymous

**Joe Biden** @ GoGoGoJOE  
"People cry, not because they're weak. It's because they've been strong for so long." -Anonymous

* * *

"Welcome back to the Dr. Oz show! Here we have chef, entrepreneur, and resident ass enthusiast: Guy Fieri!" Artificial applause sounded as Guy approached the stage, waving his hand and sitting down next to the physician. "So, Guy, what do you have to say about all the eating of ass going on recently? This is quite the controversial topic, especially since the culprit has yet to be caught."

Guy took off his shades, blessing everyone with the sight of his most breathtaking eyes. "I think it's wonderful. Let the Sochi Asseater eat as much ass as he wants. It's good for your health."

Dr. Oz rose. "There you have it folks! Guy Fieri himself has #confirmed that eating ass is not only fulfilling, but good for you. See you next time!"

* * *

 

_Le Petit Prince_ was probably one of the fanciest restaurants Sebastian had ever been to. Complete with candles on every table, an orchestra playing soft violin music in the corner, and uptight men in suits browsing wine menus, it was easily one of the best (and most expensive) in Sochi.

He hated it.

He hated the suit and tie he was wearing against his will, too.

But, Coach Ruffalo had _insisted_ on paying for he and Chris to go somewhere nice that night (even though Sebastian had assured him multiple times that the cheap burger place down the street from their hotel was _fine_ for them) and here seemed to fit the bill easily. He supposed he should probably feel a little guilty for not arguing harder when Coach Ruffalo insisted on paying for it all, but Mark was pretty damn set on it--for how hard they’d been working. A good luck meal for the opening of their event tomorrow. All of that.

Sebastian glanced at his watch. It was 7:45. Chris had told him he'd meet him by the entrance at 7:30, after a last-minute errand he had to run with Coach Ruffalo.

He sighed. Was Chris stuck in traffic? Had he gotten there before 7:30 and just decided to sit and wait for Sebastian at their table? He assumed Chris would’ve texted him were that the case, but the reception in Sochi _was_ pretty spotty. Communist airwave interference, and everything.

Sebastian walked over to the front desk, clearing his throat awkwardly. The woman standing there looked up from her PDA, giving him a fake smile. "Yes?" she said, inflection in her tone making it clear that Sebastian was interrupting something.

"Hi," he began, "I'm, um, here to meet someone for dinner." He gave her his most charming smile, one he'd used to do everything from winning over interviewers to more newly discovered talents like picking up guys at Club G!ay in a heartbeat.

The woman didn't bat an eyelid. "Name?" she asked in a thick French accent, sounding bored as she pulled out a thick folder marked _Reservations_.

"Chris?" Sebastian said, uncertain. "I think. It might be Evans, or–"

The woman shook her head, tapping on the folder. "No, you're right. Chris, reservation for two. We seated your boyfriend a little bit before 7:30." She set the folder down, motioning for Sebastian to follow her.

"Thanks," Sebastian said, and just because he liked saying, added, "my boyfriendwas so considerate to make reservations for us." His boyfriend. Chris Evans, his boyfriend. His boyfriend who was Chris Evans. Sebastian resolved to eventually get drunk enough for it to be socially acceptable to get that tattooed.

It had been  _great_ locker room sex. Great locker room sex with a great talk about feelings afterwards.

The woman made a small "mm" noise, gesturing to a table near the back of the place. It was empty, but a bottle of wine sat on the table, and there was a suit jacket slung over the back of one of the chairs; Chris must be in the bathroom. "A waiter will be by shortly," the woman said, not bothering to elaborate any further before walking back to the front.

Sebastian sat at the table across from Chris's empty seat, tapping his fingers anxiously on the tabletop. He hoped Chris would hurry up and get back to the table; one quick glance at the menu and his limited knowledge of the French language quickly informed Sebastian that he had no clue what the _fuck_ was in any of this food.

Sebastian's phone buzzed in his pocket. "What does Coach Ruffalo want _now_?" he sighed, mainly to himself, before pulling out his phone and unlocking it.

It was from Chris.

_Going to be a little late to the restaurant_ , it said. _Mark and I r_ _an into Paul Rudd at the store they wouldn't stop talking. Sorry! xoxo_.

Sebastian put his phone down. He picked his phone back up. He read Chris's text again. He contemplated asking a classy-looking woman in a long dress at the table a few over from his to read it aloud to him to make sure he had read it right. He put it back in his pocket.

Sebastian realized a few things at once; A) Chris was late, B) the absent man Sebastian was sharing his table with was _not_ Chris, C) the restaurant had made a Huge Mistake with seating, and D) Chris had signed his text with "xoxo" and that was _the cutest thing ever oh my God._ Sebastian also realized that he should probably vacate the table _immediately_ before he had to explain to Mystery Suit-Jacket-On-Chair Man that he had no intentions whatsoever of crashing his date.

And that was when Sebastian's mystery tablemate returned.

"Hey, you made it!" the man said from somewhere behind Sebastian, and Sebastian heard the guy start to half-jog to the table. "I thought you got lost, I-–"

The guy reached the table, his smile sliding off his face when he realized that Sebastian was most definitely not who he thought he was. "Huh," he said, running a hand through his dark blond hair and peering at Sebastian over his sunglasses. "You're not Zachary."

Sebastian tried to look apologetic. "And you're not Chris."

The guy looked even more confused, sliding into his seat. "But...I _am_ Chris?"

Several things happened at once yet again. Sebastian made to stand up while making excuses about _bad staff service_ and that he _hopes the guy has a great time,_ a slightly familiar voice said "Chris?" in a surprised tone, and a _very_ familiar voice said "Sebastian?" in an even more surprised tone.

"I can explain," Sebastian and the mystery guy said at the same time.

Chris, _his_ Chris, and, to Sebastian's surprise, Zachary Quinto were standing next the table, both looking extremely confused.

"What are you doing here?" Sebastian and Zachary asked each other at the same time, before both gesturing to the mystery man and adding "What is _he_ doing here?"

"Can everyone stop talking in unison and _explain_ ," Chris sighed.

"Your boyfriend here was sitting at my table when I got back from the bathroom," the mystery guy said to Chris, looking the most confused out of all of them. "I was waiting for you," he continued, directing this part to Zachary.

"Seating mishap," Sebastian said, motioning at Zachary and the mystery guy. "The lady at the desk must've put you guys at our table by accident."

"But this is our table," Zachary said, looking somehow even more confused. "Chris reserved it for us."

"Um, no," Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Chris reserved this table for _us_. It's under _his_ name _._ "

"Of course it's under my name," the mystery guy said, "it's my table."

"What is happening," Chris asked weakly. (I’m not really sure either and I’m the author.)

"Chris, can you just–" Zachary began.

Sebastian stood up, glaring. "Zach, don't tell Chris what to do."

"I appreciate your concern, but I don't actually mind..." the mystery guy said.

"Can everyone _shut up,_ " Chris interrupted.

The three stopped talking. The entire restaurant was staring at them now.

Chris dragged a hand down his face. "Thank you."

Sebastian looked curiously at the mystery guy. If you took away the beard, made the hair longer, added a gold _Starfleet_ shirt… "Shit," Sebastian said, "You're Chris Pine." He quickly backed even further away from the table. "Your name is Chris. This is your table. Shit."

"Tell the man what he's won," myst–- _Chris Pine_ said drily.

Sebastian felt his cheeks burning, and he hid his face in his hands in horror. "Jesus Christ. I'm so sorry."

Chris– _his_ Chris, not _Chris Pine_ Chris–suddenly began to laugh, and after a few seconds Zachary joined in, then Chris Pine, and then even Sebastian was struggling not to crack a smile.

"It's nice to see you again," Zachary said to Sebastian once they had all finally stopped, though he was still grinning as he pulled the man in for a hug. "I had no clue you were coming to Sochi!"

"We're competing," Chris said proudly, slinging an arm around Sebastian's shoulder. "Couples skiing."

Zachary raised an eyebrow at the close proximity of the two, and Sebastian turned pink.

"I, um, think I'm disqualified from the Club now," Sebastian said sheepishly, as both Chris-es looked on in bewilderment. After a second, he quirked an eyebrow at Zachary and nodded at the table Chris Pine was still sitting at. "And you?"

Zachary rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying not to smile. “Yeah.”

"What–?" Chris Pine began, but Zachary interrupted him by saying quickly "Maybe Chris and Sebastian want to join us for dinner?"

"So, a double date!" Chris said happily, grabbing onto Sebastian's hand. "Sure!"

Chris Pine winked at Chris. “I see my advice worked, then,” he said, punching him in a brotherly way on the shoulder. “I totally guessed it was him.” Chris--Sebastian’s Chris--ignored him.

It was a weird double date. But, hey, at least (his) Chris looked good in a suit.

* * *

Chris Pine and Zach eventually ended up excusing themselves early from the date to ditch dessert and head next door to Club G!ay instead. The night was young and gay and, conveniently, so were they, and they wanted nothing more than to exploit it.

It was also karaoke night at Club G!ay, and although Chris would never admit it unless under the influence of a pretty impressive amount of alcohol, he actually really enjoyed karaoke. And he wasn’t half bad at it, either. The entirety of Club G!ay was about to find out he wasn’t half bad, too, thanks to a male stripper challenging Chris to a shot contest and ultimately leaving the _Star Trek_ star majorly inebriated with a desire to prove himself to Zach.

“This one goes out to my boyfriend, Zachary Quinto,” Chris slurred, standing on the stage in the back of the club and using the microphone stand as a means to stay upright. He blew Zach a kiss, who caught it overdramatically in his hand. “Love you, babe.”

“Love you too!” Zach shouted back, he himself having had one too many organic sugar-free low-calorie vegan strawberry daiquiris.

(The exchange, having been recorded by a clubgoer, was promptly posted to multiple social media sites with the caption “pinto #confirmed”. It was trending within seconds, and talk show hosts across America booked the next flight to Sochi with their cameras and news teams in tow in hopes of getting the scoop. A somewhat violent virtual battle over whether Chris or Zach was the bottom of the relationship was also happening on the popular blogging platform tumblr.)

The musical accompaniment to the [1987 hit “I’ve Had the Time of My Life”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BQLE_RrTSU) began to play over the loudspeakers of the club, and Chris Pine started to sing along in a surprisingly mellifluous voice. I mean, did you see him in _Into the Woods_? His voice could resurrect Jesus himself.

“ _And I owe it all to you,_ ” Chris sang, pointing at Zach in a dramatic way that made Zach swoon. _  
_

(The recording of this also made its way to the trending list within a matter of minutes. The image of Chris Pine pointing subsequently became a meme within a few seconds of the trending, and generated a series of spinoff memes and meme synthesises before the night was over. It was dubbed "overused" by the next morning.)

Chris finished the song to a tumulus round of applause and, after bowing, exited the stage to swoop Zach into a dramatic kiss like that one picture of the soldier kissing that chick in the middle of the city. You know the one I mean. "Hey babe," Chris said, omnipresent sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal the anime-esque blue glimmer of his eyes.

"You were great, Chris," Zach said, pink in the face and looking a little dazed at the close proximity to Chris Pine (even if Chris Pine was, as Zach had discovered earlier, apparently his boyfriend of many months).

"I know," Chris said with a wink. He righted himself and Zach and turned back to the other bar patrons. "Now," he shouted, "whose ass I going to have to space-karate for another drink around here?"

The bar erupted into cheers again, and Zach shook his head fondly. _What a man_ , he thought. What a man indeed.

Zach and Chris made their way back to the bar to order another round of drinks, and Zach realized with startling clarity that this was the most fun he'd had since that one night in college with the two-dozen cans of stolen spiked Sprite, the Jewish cemetery, and the wreath of Christmas tinsel that smelled vaguely of cannabis. With another pang that felt something more like guilt, Zach realized he'd totally been blowing off the rest of the Mackle No More League and had made absolutely no progress in investigating Cameron Diaz's disappearance for the whole day.

It was worth it, though, Zach realized. Chris was worth everything.

"A sugarfree low-calorie vegan piña colada for my boyfriend here," Chris said to the bartender, slinging an arm around Zach's shoulders and smiling good-naturedly, "and a whiskey for myself."

"Yes sir," said the bartender, whose name was Richard (Rich to his family, Dick to his friends, and Big Dick to a select handful of his more _intimate_ friends "on account of that being what I have," as he would say.)

"Put 'em on my tab, Big Dick," said a voice to Chris's right, "and ditto to the whiskey. This round's on me."

The owner of the voice, as Chris and Zach discovered when they swiveled in unison to the side, was an attractive well-dressed man with a beard and an angular face. He had the elegant hipster grace of those who spend an exceedingly long amount of time making themselves look like they didn't spend any time at all getting ready. "That was quite the show up there," he said, smirking at Chris and twirling a cherry stem around in his half-empty glass. "Are all of your performances that, ah, impressive?"

"Depends on who's asking," Chris said, raising an eyebrow and smirking right back.

"Jack Falahee," said the man, holding a hand out to Chris. “And your possible next number-one fan.”

Chris shook it. "Chris Pine," he said.

"Who's your friend?" Jack asked, nodding towards Zach (who had been silently fuming in the background throughout the entire exchange).

“I’m Zach,” Zach said, with barely concealed contempt. “His boyfriend. His loving boyfriend who he is in a loving committed relationship with. A loving committed relationship that--”

Jack cut him off, downing his drink and making to stand up. "So, Chris. What do you say we get out of here?"

“Excuse me?” Chris said, mouth gaping open slightly. “I have--I have a _boyfriend_.”

“I did say _we_.” Jack winked at Zach. “Three may be a crowd to some people but it sure as hell ain’t to me.”

Okay, so, Zach would have to be massively lying to himself if he said the guy wasn’t hot. And he was clearly into both of them. And Chris was clearly into him. What the hell, what’s the worse that could happen?

“What the hell. Why not?” Zach shrugged, glancing to Chris for assent. Chris nodded.

Jack smiled.

* * *

Zach called them a taxi a few moments later, and while he and Chris stood on the sidewalk waiting for it, Jack excused himself for a second. “Phone call,” he explained, walking back to stand in the doorway of the club. He waited until Zach and Chris were busy talking again before dialing the number.

“Viola,” he said quietly into his cellphone, “I’ve got them right where I want them. Give me--” He glanced back at Chris and Zach, scrutinizing them. “--give me an hour or two. I don't have much hopes for the twink, but the blond looks like the kind of guy who can go more than one round.”

On the other end, star of the popular law drama _How To Get Away With Murder_ Viola Davis tsked. “Don’t forget the _point_ of your rendezvous, Mr. Falahee,” she said sternly. “If we want to win this case for Hotel Rwanda, we need solid proof. Solid proof that _you_ need to _get_.”

“Read you loud and clear,” Jack said. As an afterthought, he added “Give my love to Alfie.” He hung up.

Whoever said you couldn’t extort valuable information out of Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto _and_ get laid at the same time? Probably no one, but oh well.

* * *

It seemed like Chris, Zach, and Jack weren’t the only ones with a mission in Club G!ay that evening; after the trio departed for their night of homosexual debauchery back at Hotel Rwanda, the metaphorical spotlight of this story was shined upon Mark Ruffalo and Tobey Maguire instead. The duo sat broodingly at a table in the far rear of the club, away from where all the fun was happening but still close enough to the bar that they could make their own if they so desired.

“At least that asshole stopped singing karaoke,” Tobey sighed, looking mournfully into the dregs of his drink; he thought it might’ve been vodka. He was too depressed to tell.

“Tobey,” Mark said sympathetically, “I know you’re upset about Leo, but--”

“ _Upset_?” Tobey laughed bitterly. “You know how I feel about him, Mark. How can I--” He took a deep breath. “He keeps asking me to set him up with my cousin Lizzie. Little Lizzie McGuire, you know? The little blonde who would always follow us around when we were in high school and beg to play with us?” He motioned for the bartender to refill his mystery drink. “How can I set the man I love up with someone else?”

Mark shook his head when the bartender tried to pour more vodka into Tobey’s glass and waved him off; Tobey had had enough. “That’s why we’re here tonight, Tobey,” Mark said kindly. “To help Leo. You and I both know he has a habit of taking method acting to the extreme.”

Tobey smiled ruefully. “Just wish it was me he fell for, for once.”

The doors of the bar opened, and Leonardo DiCaprio walked in in a flurry of cold air, snow, and a dazzling charm he himself seemed to exude. He had forgone the pink suit from earlier that day, instead choosing a periwinkle ensemble with a checkered pocket-square and matching tie. “Mark! Tobey!” Leo said happily, jogging over and pulling up a chair to join his friends’ table. “This sure is a swell joint.”

_My God_ , Tobey thought in horror. _We’re too late._ _He’s already speaking in slang_.

“Leo, we need to have a talk,” Mark said, gently placing a hand over Leo’s. “It’s about--”

“Did you talk to Lizzie yet for me, Nick?” Leo asked excitedly, completely ignoring Mark in favor of talking to Tobey. “That dame sure is the bee’s knees. She’s got _it_ , if you know what I mean.” He winked.

“Listen to yourself, Leo!” Tobey shouted, standing up abruptly and smacking his hands against the tabletop. A few patrons looked their way nervously.  “You’re a walking cliche!”

“So you didn’t talk to her, then?” Leo said, looking disappointed. Tobey looked like he was about to flip the table.

“Leo, you’re acting like you’re Jay Gatsby!” Mark shouted. He hardly ever raised his voice, but when he did, it was for serious situations like this.

A look of faraway confusion crossed Leo’s face. “Why, of course I’m acting like Jay Gatsby, old sport.” He looked between Mark and Tobey like they were speaking a different language. “I _am_ Jay Gatsby.”

Mark and Tobey watched in stunned silence as walked off, leaving the bar with nothing behind but a vague scent of flowers. Conversation in the club, having lulled when the three were arguing, resumed around Mark and Tobey.

Their eyes met, and simultaneously both silently agreed on two things: one, this was worse than they could have possibly imagined; and two, they were to keep Leo away from swimming pools at all costs.

* * *

After dinner, when they got back to their hotel, Sebastian dragged Chris– _his_ Chris–into their room by his tie, quickly shutting the door behind them.

"When I walked into the restaurant," Chris said, sounding a little breathless as Sebastian pressed him against the door, kissing up his throat. "I was worried that you had found a new Chris you liked better than me."

Sebastian laughed against Chris's neck, and Chris shivered at the feeling. "Impossible," Sebastian said, voice low as he worked at the buttons on Chris's shirt. "There's only one Chris I could possibly want in this world."

Chris couldn't stop the goofy smile slowly spreading across his face. "Really?" he asked, trying and failing to sound like he was being serious. Sebastian laughed.

"Really," he said, shoving both Chris's button-up and suit jacket to the ground. He left the tie, and Chris had one second to wonder why before Sebastian grabbed it, using it to yank him not entirely without gentleness towards their bed and subsequently answering his thought.

Chris allowed Sebastian to push him onto the bed, and Sebastian followed him quickly, tossing off his own shirt and straddling his waist. He bent down and kissed Chris, roughly, and Chris moaned into his mouth.

"I'm not sure I believe you," Chris managed to gasp out against Sebastian's lips, even as Sebastian began rocking their still-clothed hips together.

Sebastian gave another short laugh, biting down on Chris's lower lip.

"You are _undoubtedly_ my favorite Chris," he said, voice a low purr that went straight to Chris's cock, "And I'm going to prove it to you."

Later, Chris decided, Sebastian did indeed do a very good job of proving it to him.  

* * *

“Oh hey,” Jack said casually, as Zach unlocked the hotel room door. He was watching the room Chris Evans and Sebastian had just disappeared into to. “I slept with that guy last week. The twinky one. Kept asking me to call him Bucky in bed.” He chucked, shaking his head. “What happens in Sochi stays in Sochi, eh?”

“Mm,” Zach agreed vaguely, not actually paying attention to Jack as the trio made their way into the League’s joint hotel room. “By the way,” he added, taking off his shirt, “we can’t be too loud. Ludacris is a light sleeper.” He nodded to a bed adjacent to the one Jack presumed they’d be using, and Jack suddenly realized there were four other people asleep in the room.

“You have--you have roommates?” Jack said, blinking.

“We’ll have to be quiet,” Chris told him, unbuttoning Jack’s shirt. “Think you can handle it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jack chuckled preemptively at the pun he was about to make. “Seems a little...hard.”

“For the love of Elba,” Zach groaned, as the three fell to the bed, “no dick jokes during sex.”

* * *

**Sochi Bulletin** @ SochiNews  
BREAKING NEWS: The Asseater strikes again, claims two more victims.

* * *

"Mr. Mooney? Is there anything else you'll need?" Asked the friendly room service masseuse once he had finished kneading Paul's broad back. Paul rolled his shoulders, relishing in the satisfying _crack_  of his previously aching bones. He shook his head at the young man donned in the official Hotel Rwanda uniform.

"That'll be all, Rousey," Paul rose from the portable massage table. "That was _f_ _antastic_ , as usual."

The pillow sommelier, L. Growlie, appeared from the section of the large suite that contained the bed. "Your pillows are fluffed to maximum softness and stuffed with the feathers of an albatross. Your neck will never be sore again, Mr. Mooney."

"Oh," Paul said with a small laugh. "I just don't like that cotton ball mess they usually put in pillows. It makes me feel bad about myself." Rousey held his white button up over the coach's shoulders, allowing him to slip in with ease. As Paul buttoned it up with great concentration (he always had trouble with the last button), he said, "I think I'm going to take a walk. Clear my head a bit." He had been quite troubled over the state of his players. Don really seemed upset over his fuckboy ex. Feelings like that could get in the way of a gold medal. They needed to strategize.

He dismissed the gentlemen and walked towards one of the shelves where a framed picture of himself, Don, and Steve sat. It had been taken on one of the first days of practice, all those years ago. Back when they were younger, more naive. He rubbed a thumb over his own captured face. God, he was handsome.

He made his way outside, the cool, crisp air blew over his shiny, bald head. He shortly wished that he had remembered to grab his trademark baseball cap, but continued on walking anyway. He didn't have any real idea of where he was going, but felt some sort of force pulling him towards the donut shop across the street. Little did he know, this would turn out to be a grave mistake.

As soon as he step foot into the street, a bright red convertible came speeding down the road. It's headlights temporarily blinded the doomed Paul, putting him into a shock too sudden for him to quickly move out of the way.

The vehicle made contact with the coach, sending him flying into the dry air, and onto his now broken back on the road up ahead. The driver smirked. His job was done.

Just to be certain, though, he drove over the already lifeless body, thanking every god that he had gotten those industrial off-road terrain tires for his car just the week before. _Yep_ , he lamented to himself. _Definitely dead_.

The car drove off into the night, the OZBORN license plate gleaming in the moonlight.

* * *

**Joe Biden** @ GoGoGoJOE  
"Silence is the most powerful scream." -Anonymous

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back  
> hit us up on twitter at [here](https://twitter.com/buckgaybarnes) and [here](https://twitter.com/mystori_machine)


	10. Rugrats in Russia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything goes horribly wrong for most (if not all) characters, the authors drew a lot of inspiration from their high school theater experience, One Direction become main characters, and Photoshop was abused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's hard being a sex symbol." -Shaquille O'Neal

_“Who’s there?”_

* * *

"Last day @ the academy" The Foremost read as he double-tapped the instapic of one of his favorite trainees.

He wiped a tear rolling down his cheek. "He'll make a great general one day. Maybe even a Foremost one." He blew his nose with an embroidered handkerchief. "They grow up so fast." His eyes raised from the screen of phone, giving the men a look of genuine pride. "Boys, this is very last time you're going to hear this..." A chorus of "aww's" and quiet sniffs sounded through the training field. The Foremost raised the corners of his lips in a warm smile. He took a deep breath and yelled,

"Mark time march and--"

"I won't march. This is stupid." Quipped one of the younger trainees, Adam Sandler, as he tried and failed to pull his short, ass-accenting shorts over his knees.

Hardness turned around in a flourish. "What was that, my good man?"

"I said that I think this is stupid. Us marching isn't training us to do _anything_."

The Foremost coughed. "We're marching to create formations. It cultivates teamwork and the ability. To follow. Orders." He punctuated each word with a poke to the youth's barreled chest. The boy glared.

"Creating a crime scene with our bodies doesn't feel very productive. I mean, we could be working that crime scene at Hotel Rwanda!" The general stopped in his tracks.

"Crime scene?" He turned around dramatically. "What crime scene?"

Another trainee, Channing Tatum, raised his hand, and Hardness nodded at him. "Sir, Hardness Sir! There was a murder on the intersection of the Hotel driveway and Stalin Drive. The victim was comedian Paul Mooney. There are no suspects so far that we know of. The FBI is already thinking about giving up."

 _Can they do anything right?_ The Foremost wondered before realizing the corporal's mistake. "And, the 'D' is silent, young man!" He rubbed his mustache pensively. "Well, I'll have to put in my own personal investigation with the FreshBI. When the FBI are out of their depths, who do they call?"

The young men all answered, even the unruly one, with a loud, "THE FRESHBI!"

They all got back into line, prepared to march, but the general had other plans. "No more marching for today." He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I suppose I was a bit hasty, old man." He addressed the rest of the men with, "You've earned yourselves a day off, boys. Make the most of it, because tomorrow, you officially become members of the FreshBI!" The gays cheered, hugging each other and soon directing said hugs towards Hardness.

Hard had never been so happy in his entire life.

* * *

Kanye peeked through the blinds of the window from his suite. _There he is_ , he realized as he pressed a hand to the cold glass. _My son_... Zayn, as he had been for the past two months, was taking the usual shortcut back to his apartment not too far away from the hotel after another riveting training session with the FreshBI. Ever since that first day Ye had spotted him, he had been captivated by the fine linens fit for the gods (Oprah ((bless her)) had said so Herself) that adorned the former boy band memeber's body. Versace, Dolce and Gobbana, _fucking Armani_ , this boy was a fashion _gem_. And Evel Kanyevel would have this crown jewel, even if it was the last thing he did. 

* * *

Don Cheadle awoke in the early hours of the morning to his phone buzzing violently on the bedside table and Steve Harvey cursing his name and everything Don believed in with a frightful vehemence.

“Answer your _goddamn_ phone, boy,” Steve hissed, burying his head into his pillows. Don, still disoriented from sleep, squinted at the alarm clock. It was only 4 am. Who in fuck’s name would be texting him at 4 am?

“Coach Mooney probably wants us to come in early for practice,” Don groaned, grabbing his phone just as it vibrated again with one--two--three-- _four_ more texts. Steve didn’t answer, as he was currently trying to block out existence as a whole.

To Don’s surprise, the texts weren’t from Mooney at all. They were from various friends and co-stars, all saying something along the lines of _my heart goes out for you and steve_ or _just heard the news, can’t believe it_ or _i’m here for you any time_. (There were also several from James Franco apologizing about the fiasco the prior day with an excessive amount of emojis, but Don steadfastly ignored those.) “What the fuck?” Don said out loud to the universe as a whole. “Why is everyone acting like someone just died?”

Almost as though the universe as a whole was attempting to answer the inquiry posed by Don Cheadle, Don’s phone began ringing. He sighed and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Is this Don Cheadle?” asked a man on the other end of the line.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Hi, Kyle Massey, calling on behalf of the _Sochi News._ I was wondering if I could get a comment from you on this terrible, terrible tragedy. It must’ve affected you and your teammate incredibly hard, I’m sure.”

Don frowned. Time must've been pretty rough for Kyle Massey if he had to resort to journalism. Also, there was the tragedy thing. “What tragedy?”

“Why, the _incredibly_ gory hit-and-run of your coach, of course.”

Don dropped the phone. As it hit the ground, one could almost hear "Mm Whatcha Say"playing ever so faintly in the distance, an homage to a meme that was in full-swing when this author originally wrote that line but has since nearly re-faded to obscurity.

* * *

"Neeson! Goddammit where is that fucker when we need him..." Chiwetel mused as he smoothed the lapels of his leather jacket. The time had come once again for the second poker game of the cycle, this time taking place at Oprah's $8,000,000,000 faux-rustic new wave hypo-modern industrial steam punk Greek-inspired bungalow themed mansion. The Olympics were on the full wall sized flat screen (as in it literally took up the entire fucking wall), and the remaining two gods, being Idris and Oprah herself, were lounging on the sparkling white suede couches, having become tired of losing literally a very small portion  of their wealth to Liam Neeson. The aforementioned man had left nearly an hour ago to make a deposit of said cash at Oprah's personal bank (located in one of her walk-in closets), and had yet to return. The #blessed beings were, in a word, bored. 

"I'd hate to say it, but without that Scottish son of a bitch taking our money, these poker nights are kinda bogus," muttered Oprah as the program switched to yet another Minions commercial. Hell, did she hate those yellow demon buttplugs with a passion.

Chiwetel slipped on his Ray's Bens™ glasses in frustration. "I hate it when you're right, Winfrey. What do we do now?"

Idris, who was smoldering to nothing in particular, suddenly began to giggle. "I have an idea," he chirped, eyes twinkling. ["Shall we go to Taco Bell?"](http://www.buzzfeed.com/jennaguillaume/swiss-chard-he-purrs#.pezQg0OraP) 

* * *

The Sochi General Hospital was decked out in an uninviting mixture of sterile chrome and stench of antiseptic, as Don and Steve discovered after they raced into the lobby a mere twenty minutes after receiving the call from the Sochi News. They hadn’t even waited to find out Coach Mooney’s condition from Kyle Massey; for all they knew, he could still be alive. Which really was an oversight on their part. Don hadn’t even actually hung up his phone, they had just literally sprinted out of the hotel after he dropped it.

Steve slammed his fists down on the front desk, startling the receptionist. “We need to see Coach Mooney, _hurry_!”

“Room 1369,” the receptionist said, eyeing them nervously.

When Don and Steve finally reached Coach Mooney’s room, the doctor was just shutting the door. “How is he?” shouted Don, “How’s Coach Mooney?”

The doctor frowned. “Did they not tell you?” he said. “He, um, got into a head-on collision with a red sports car and died instantly. You’re literally in the morgue of the hospital.” He pointed to the large, flashing neon sign that said _Sochi General Hospital Morgue: People Are Just Dying To Get In!_ It was pretty hard to miss.

Don fainted, but Steve caught him in time. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Steve whispered, tears falling from his eyes. Coach Mooney had practically raised them (throughout adulthood anyway). It was like losing a parent. The doctor patted Steve’s arm gently.

“If it’s any consolation,” began the doctor, “Mr. Mooney left instructions in his will as to who would continue sheltering and coaching you boys in the event of his death.”

“And?” whispered Steve.

“Pack your bags and say hello to your new coach, boys,” said Simon Cowell, suddenly bursting out of the room which held Coach Mooney’s corpse. The doctor jumped, clearly confused as to how the British _X-Factor_ star had gotten down there. (For narrative reasons, you should know that Simon was hiding on one of the morgue slabs under a sheet.) “You’re going to be _living with_ _One Direction_.”

Steve gasped.

This was the story of how One Direction bought the Bronze Duo and, subsequently, brought about the Apocalypse.

* * *

Mark Ruffalo walked down the street, whistling cheerily on his way to Hotel Rwanda, breakfast in hand, to wake his star team.. “Morning,” he said, nodding at a roguishly handsome man as he passed. The man smiled. A second later, he froze and turned to stare at the retreating passerby in shock. He knew that man—the unshaven yet appealing face, the careless smile, the face that seemed to say _I’ve never had a_ real _job in my life_.

“Is…is that Paul Rudd?” he exclaimed. But it was too late. Paul Rudd was already gone.

* * *

 **Sochi Bulletin** @ SochiNews  
BREAKING NEWS: Suspect in Mooney slaying apprehended by FreshBI.

* * *

There they were, the national guard, waiting outside of the orphanage. 

"Get in there," the tallest guardsmen, and thus, the Foremost of the twenty generals, ordered. "And find that punk." 

The generals, who were secretly also apart of the secret police, which was so secret absolutely no one but the entirety of Russia knew about it (secretly, of course), rushed into the establishment, shouting curses the whole way. Moments later, they emerged with Dane Dehaan, shoving him down on the ground. A surprisingly shocked Betty and the orphans save for the now weeping Daniel, followed suit in horror. 

The foremost general saluted his equals, and made the signal to arrest the young actor. Instead of doing so, however, the generals started shouting at each other in a fashion that not even the authors understood after being in a terrible school play with such an exchange. 

"Arrest him!" 

"Arrest him!" 

"Arrest him!" 

"Arrest him!" 

"Arrest him!" 

"What the FUCK is wrong with you guys," growled the great Dane as he struggled against the foremost general's foremost clutches. 

"Shut your mug!" He faced his men. "Speed it up, already, or I'll have you all courtmartialed!" 

The lesser generals were confused, looking to each other for clarification. "Uh, sir?" One brave memeber spoke up. "We can't courtmartial ourselves." 

Foremost General Hardness ("the D is silent", he always corrected) clicked his tongue. "I am this close to putting you all on the frontline the next time the capitalist pigs invade. Now, I order you to _arrest him_!" 

A funeral march song sounded from the heavens as each not-so-foremost general grabbed Dane and threw him into the back of a comically tiny cop car. "What the hell is this?!" The blond screeched as he gripped the metal bars of the window. "I have rights! You haven't read them yet! I have the right to an attorney! I have a right to remain silent! I have--" 

"Then, I suggest you shut up! You're going to jail, pal, whether you like it or not." 

Daniel flew out of the doors of the orphanage, shouting, "What's going on? He didn't do anything wrong!" The other orphans defended the statement, knowing that Dane was as well-behaved a twink as any. 

FG-Hard twisted his neck around (the rest of his body still facing the other way) to yell, "Your friend here is a murderer! A murderer, I say!"'

"A murderer!" The other generals yelled. 

"A murderer!" 

"A murderer!" 

"A murderer!" 

"A murderer!" 

"A murd--" 

"I think they get it, fucktools!", the general foremosted. "Take him to the brig!" 

"But, I didn't kill anyone! You've got the wrong guy!" 

"Yeah," Anal Elgert supplied. "Are you sure it's not Finn?" 

The AHS star scoffed. "I haven't slain a single soul in the past fourteen hours." 

"I'm gonna ignore that, for now." Grumbled the foremost as he shooed the generals into the (still small) police car. "I'd suggest you get this fiend a lawyer, and a good one at that!" With that, the car sped off, the faint sound of Dane's shrill screams leaving with it. 

Betty bit her lip. "Well, I'm off to bed. Toodaloo, boys!" She chirped, unexpectedly chipper for someone who just had one of their least rowdy orphans arrested. She skipped back inside, slamming the door, with a click that suspiciously resembled a locking sound. The boys chose not to care. 

"What are we gonna do, now?" Inquired Evan as he rubbed his neck with a claw. The boys got to thinking, which didn't exactly get them very far as they soon came to terms with the fact that they were locked outside in the middle of the day wearing nothing but their pajamas in the winter. They began to claw at the door, begging for sweet release. 

"Hey, fellas!" Michael Cera alerted the motley crew. "It's the paper!" He picked it up, dusting some snow off of it, and read, "'Olympic Coach, Social Commentator, and Bald Gentlemen's Club Leader Paul Mooney found dead in the middle of the street at 3 am last night!' It says that he was killed in a hit and run on Stalin Drive, and--" 

"That's the street with the IHOP, right?" Andrew asked. 

Anal's stomach growled. "I want pancakes now. Let's go to IHOP!" This lead to the others "ooh-ing" and preparing to leave the premises before Michael put out a hand to stop them. 

"You guys gotta hear this! It says that the only evidence they have of the suspect is a blurry picture of the driver running a stop light. The only thing they can make out is that the license plate says OZBORN. Do you think they think Dane did this?" 

"Ngl, I wouldn't be surprised." Angel Edder sniffed. "What else does it say?" 

Michael did the unforgivable and swiped his tongue across his thumb to turn the page. "It says...whoever has more information about this tragedy will receive a reward!" Intrigued hums sounded from the crowd of boys. 

Andrew, despite being slightly put-out from the whole situation, inquired, "how much?" 

Michael squinted at the page. "Huh, it says you might get...a free mint? Or something?" 

Daniel immediately stopped sobbing. "What kind o mint."

The boys pondered over the array of potential flavors of this so deserved mint, forgetting entirely about their friend. It wasn't until Evan punched a hole through the window with his Extra-Strength© claw for the boys to crawl through, that they all went about their day as if nothing had occurred at all. 

Dane, however, was not so lucky.

 "I can't believe this. Why am I in prison? Why haven't  one of my gays come to rescue me yet? Where the hell is my lawyer?!" Asked Dane as he beat his head against the wall of his cell. 

The guard, who was conveniently enough Matt Mcgorry of both OITNB and HTGAWM fame. He rolled his eyes with a muttered, "can you quit your whining already? I kinda have to be at a meeting right now with costars to investigate something about ass eating," he groaned.  "I don't even know anymore. Everything used to be so simple. I don't blame my character for getting the hell out when he did." If you haven't watched the season of OITNB yet I suggest that you do because it's practically August I mean rly guys. This isn't even a spoiler anymore.

"Of course you don't, you sick fuck! How could you do that to Daya?! She's with fucking child!!!"

Matthieu groaned once more, the sound echoing through the mostly empty unit of the prison. "Not you too! For the love of the gods..." 

Before Dane could exclaim his secondhand betrayal at the hands of a fictional character, another inmate was brought in, and placed in the cell right next to Dane. 

"Rihanna? What are you doing here?" Matt asked as he covertly took a quick selfie with her.

"Apparently," the Barbadian (wow I didn't know that was the term) beauty said. "Making a song about killing your accountant technically counts as conspiracy and attempted murder and blah, blah, blah. Who cares. My lawyer will get me out of here." 

Dane rested his cheek on his hand. "I wish I had a lawyer."

"Too bad, so sad, bitch." She filed her nails with a probably illegal nail file. 

"Uh, I'm gonna have to take that," stated Matt, but a single look from the singer advised him against it. 

Suddenly, slow tango music sounded through the entire prison. Various noises could be heard as two more inmates were taken to their cells. 

"Paul Rudd? Steve Martin? This day just gets crazier and crazier." Matt checked his temperature with the back of his hand. "I need a break." 

Rih pressed herself against the bars. "What are you two in for?" 

"Cell Block Tango" from _Chicago_ played as Paul and Steve spun around in circles in their respective cells. 

"He had it coming, he had it coming, he only had himself to blame!" sung Mr. Rudd as he sneered. 

Steve continued with, "if you'd been there, if you'd seen it, I betcha you would have done the same!" 

Dane forgot to breathe. "What." 

"You know those assholes that think they know _real_ cinematography? The ones that act like pretentious fucks and tell everyone they know that the movie they just saw was shit just because it wasn't some indie thing?" Paul spoke in beat with the music, impassioned. "Well, I saw one of those assholes in the street. And, ya wanna know what he said to me? He said _Ant-Man_ was bad. And, ya know what? It wasn't perfect. But wanna know what else wasn’t perfect?" 

"What wasn't perfect?" Rihanna and Steve asked as Dane watched in horror. 

" _Age of Ultron_! So I killed him!" Everyone gasped before breaking out into the song again. 

It was now Steve's turn. "I was just following orders, right? My boss told me to track down an old enemy of mine and his ex. So, I cornered them with a bunch of my adorable little puppies. Really, they're harmless. And, I gave them my usual maniacal speech, but they got away! I chased them for days and they still managed to outrun my doges! But supposedly, releasing a bunch of rabid canines into the world is wrong." A beat. "But, I don't regret it!" 

The song came to its last chorus. It was Dane's turn. "Uh...why not go to Rihanna and get back to me?" 

"Dude, I wrote a whole song about what I did. Go. Tell us why you offed Paul Mooney." 

"Oh, my god, I did no such thing! It wasn't me, I swear!" 

"Well, then you better lawyer up, asshole!" warned Paul in an impeccable impression of Andrew Garfield. Or else, you're never getting out of here." 

Dane sighed. This he knew. But who could he go to? 

Then, an idea came to him. He knew exactly who. 

* * *

Across Hotel Rwanda, Jack Falahee woke in a way similar to Don and Steve. Though, instead of it being a call about the death of a loved one who had guided and sheltered and practically raised him, it was his boss. Also, he was sandwiched between two sleeping (and nude) men.

"This better be important," Jack mumbled into the receiver, after having extracted Zachary Quinto's arm from around his body.

“Would I be calling if it wasn’t?” Viola Davis said grimly.

Jack propped the phone up against his ear with his shoulder, grabbing his pants from the ground. “Has there been a breakthrough in the Hotel Rwanda case?” _Where the hell was his shirt? Oh._ He spotted it hanging from the light fixture above the bed and jumped up to reach it.

“Not yet,” said Viola, “but we’ve got another problem on our hands now. Some sad looking blond is accused of mowing down Paul Mooney last night and we’re defending his case.”

Jack swore. “Can we really manage them both at the same time?” He pulled his hispter scarf on.

“Just worry about getting that file right now,” Viola said. “Meet us at the Tsarbucks across from the Czarbucks on Stalin Drive in twenty minutes. _With_ the file. We’ll figure out what to do with it then.” She hung up.

Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto’s roommates hadn’t come home last night, and Jack thanked his lucky stars for that. It made his job a shit-ton easier. Leaving the two still sleeping on the bed, he crept over to the desk across the room and began to rifle through the drawers. “Bible...mints...stationary…” he mumbled, going through the contents. “Dildo--ew, what the fuck...aha!” He had finally reached the important paperwork, and sitting on top was the file he most needed.

_Possible Macklemore Target Section #3: Every Known Homosexual in the Sochi Region._

_On my way_ , he texted Viola, tucking the folder into his jacket and opening the hotel room door. He closed it carefully behind him.

On the bed, Zachary turned over onto his side. Neither he nor Chris woke up.

* * *

It was just a little past eight in the morning, and Mark Ruffalo was pounding on the door of his skiing team. “Wake up, gentlemen!” he shouted, still maintaining his aura of fatherly compassion and anti-fracking justice, “It’s show time!” In his other hand was a plate of toast and two coffees, because, as I said, fatherly compassion. I’m not sure how he was balancing it.

The door opened a little bit. A haggard-looking and pantsless Sebastian Stan glared at Mark through the crack. “Why are you doing this to me,” he said, less of a question and more of a weep.

“Long story short, I’ve just been informed skating is pushed off until tomorrow and skiing is pushed _up_ ,” Mark said, hand covering the lower half of his eyes as to avoid seeing an entirely different lower half of his young skiing ward. He wedged a piece of toast through the crack. “So eat up and put on some pants. You’re on at six.”

Sebastian caught the proffered breakfast food with a horrified look on his face. “We go on _today_?! Shit!” The door slammed. Mark hoped that Sebastian was putting on pants. Granted, pantsless skiing would probably boost public interest and garner a lot of media attention, but the backlash that would surely follow would take away from Mark’s anti-fracking agenda. Mark realized he was probably being a little blasé about this whole Olympics business, but in his defense, there was a much more pressing issue at hand. Leo’s livelihood was at stake; his whole existence. Just a few more days and he’d be stuck in an eternal method acting hell, forced to live out the rest of his days believing himself to be a besotted besuited bootlegger

He’d known Leo to go through these kind of phases before, but he always eventually snapped out of it--the worst one up until now had been his Jack Dawson phase. He didn’t know how Kate--

That was their solution, Mark realized with the sudden intensity that would warrant a metaphorical lightbulb above his head. He and Tobey were inexperienced, naive. They were going about it all wrong. What they needed was an expert.

Mark pulled open his phone and shot Kate Winslet a quick text. _How soon can you fly out to Sochi?_

* * *

Every single news outlet was abuzz with talk of Paul Mooney’s death and the upcoming DeHaan trial; some had even stopped covering the ongoing Olympics in favor of that topic instead. Couples skating, which was originally meant to take place later that day, was even postponed in honor of Paul Mooney and the Bronze Duo. It was impossible to turn on a television or radio without seeing a clip of Dane DeHaan being taken into custody or listening to reporters’ theories on possible motives the sad-looking twink could have had for committing such a heinous crime.

Which just made the whole ordeal even harder for Don and Steve.

“I can’t believe he’s gone, Steve,” Don wept bitterly, pressing his face into the strong, supportive shoulder of his strong, supportive teammate.

“There, there,” Steve said gruffly, attempting and failing to hide his own tears. Coach Mooney was like the father they had never had, except they had had fathers, so maybe more like the cool uncle. The cool uncle who would sneak them alcohol and porn. And also teach them figure skating. Steve suspected he had some ingrained fucked-up family dynamics he needed to work through.

“Cheer up, fellas!” exclaimed Simon Cowell, poking his head around the driver’s seat and beaming. “We’re almost to my incredibly lavish and completely impractical winter mansion!” He chuckled. “A nice bath in the Zayn Malik shrine will do you both good. And, oh, just wait until you meet my sons!” He finally returned his attention to the road after the car hit several trees, a handful of roadside vendors that were probably depending on their meager income from their stands to feed their families, and one or two pedestrians.

Simon turned up the radio to fill the awkward silence, and Kyle Massey’s voice blared through the airwaves. “ _...notable hardass lawyer Roussey J. Voight will be prosecuting DeHaan in his trial set to be held in a matter of days. Roussey, who many no doubt will recall from the infamous Guy Fieri vs State of Wisconsin case a few years back._ “

“Who the fuck is Roussey?” mumbled Steve.

* * *

**_FLASHBACK_ **

Guy Fieri slammed his fist down on the table. “Ass-eating is a delicacy that should be allowed in ALL restaurants!” he roared to the jury.

* * *

Sebastian still hadn’t put any pants on. He didn’t know why anyone expected any different.

After a half-hearted attempt at getting Chris up (Chris didn’t get up), Sebastian laid pantless on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t understand his current emotions. He’d been pining after Chris since 2010 at this point, and since then, had suffered through wet dream after wet dream, dealt with post-“rumors about Chris dating someone new”-depression every other month, read every single fanfiction he could find about himself and Chris (including a fucking weird one called _Ice Ice Baby_ ), and spent the last week having a pretty worrying amount of weird feelings-for-Chris-repression sex. It actually extended beyond worrying and into nearly physically impossible levels. Yesterday--yesterday had been the best day of his life since the _Titanic_ anniversary DVD release. Chris had been pining right back for him. This was everything he’s been dreaming of for the past five years of his life. He should be ecstatic.

So why did he feel so--confused?

He rolled onto his side and watched Chris sleeping. He looked so peaceful. Unlike Sebastian’s tormented inner monologue. God, he had so much angst to work through. Maybe if he bribed him with coffee, Anthony would listen to him and--

That’s when it hit Sebastian. Chris Evans was a great guy. With a beautiful chest. And great in bed. (Really great in bed.) But Anthony Mackie was there whenever Sebastian needed him, even when it was three in the morning and all Sebastian wanted to do was cry next to Anthony on his bed. He offered advice. He took Sebastian out for breakfast. He kept him sane through press tours and comic cons. He made him laugh.

Somewhere along the line of all Sebastian’s moping after Chris, he’d fallen in love with Anthony Mackie _too_.

Sebastian placed a kiss on Chris’s temple. “I’ll explain everything later,” he whispered guiltily, before rolling out of bed. He knew what he had to do.

It’s just like what Chris Hemsworth and Chris Pratt had told him after he had a threesome with them the other night: Sebastian, why do you always cry after sex? He wasn’t sure how that was applicable here, but he knew it _definitely_ was.

He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. He needed to see Anthony.

(He still wasn’t wearing any pants.)

* * *

"This is it, boys," Simon exclaimed, stopping the car in front of the gates to his luxurious winter home. "One of my many, many mansions, and your new home!"

The mansion loomed ominously up ahead of them like some sort of large, extended metaphor for their overwhelming grief regarding their late coach's demise and their apprehension for the future with their new one. Or it might've just loomed because it was big. "I should give you fellows a tour," said Simon. "I've got twenty bars, two private museums, exact replicas of the American Idol and X-Factor stages,"--at this, he looked nostalgic--"a sex dungeon, possibly Tim Allen's decaying corpse somewhere (the cops have been combing the grounds for him since he disappeared the other day but they haven't found anything yet, so who knows)--"

"We know," interrupted Steve, looking bored, "we were just here for your party."

"Silly me!" laughed Simon. He was pulling the car into the ten-acre long garage now, parking it opposite the end of the garage with the door. "Right, we may have a bit of a walk..."

A significant amount of time later, a somewhat sweaty Bronze Duo and Simon Cowell finally made it inside the winter home. The garage led directly into the great hall, which was as elegant, luxurious, and impractical (there was a swimming pool in the middle of the dining table) as the rest of the mansion, but the duo was too busy panting and suffering heatstroke (the garage also doubled as a sauna) to take it all in. "What's the matter, boys? Can't handle a little morning promenade?" Simon chuckled, despite the fact that he too was drenched in sweat and had collapsed around the 5-acre mark and had to be dragged the rest of the way, rambling about the unexpected and unexplainable rift in his friendship with Randy Jackson all the while. He managed to stumble to his feet and spread his arms out in a welcoming gesture, reminiscent of Leonardo DiCaprio in _the Great Gatsby_. "Welcome to my winter home--or," Simon laughed genially, " _your_ winter home."

Steve and Don didn't respond. They were too busy lying unconscious on the floor.

A few minutes and some smelling salts later, the Bronze Duo continued their unnecessary tour of the mansion. Simon showed them all forty bedrooms, the chapels dedicated each major religion in the free world, the kitchen (there was surprisingly only one), and even the Hall of One Direction. "Now," Simon said (lol), stopping in front of a closed door, "this is the best part of the house." His hand rested on the doorknob as he bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming. "Steve....Don....meet your new brothers!"

He flung the door open to reveal four members of One Direction looking pretty bored in a somewhat disappointingly average living room. If one looked hard enough, one might even suspect they were being held prisoner there. They all mumbled hellos. "Boys, be polite!" Simon scolded them.

Harry, Louis (who was reclining), and Liam immediately brightened up at their father's command waved at the Bronze Duo with a well-harmonized and probably copyrighted chorus of "hellos", but Zayn was too busy looking off into the distance and brooding to pay them any mind.

"Don't mind him," Simon said, low enough so that only Don and Steve could hear him, "he just got out of a bad break-up with his last boyfriend, Naughty Boy. It was pretty ugly. And besides that, he and Louis haven't been getting along lately." Simon shook his head.

"Oh my GOD, Dad, let me LIVE," Zayn shouted, angrily jumping to his feet. His Eminem inspired haircut rippled in the slight breeze. "Kanye's more of a father to me than you'll ever be!" He stormed out of the room.

The Bronze Duo was surprised to see a tear rolling down Simon's cheek. "I always tried to be such a loving father," he whispered. He rubbed his eyes. "But, no matter! I have you lovely kids now." He patted Steve and Don on the heads. Steve wasn't paying attention to his new coach, however. There was a breaking news update flashing across the large television that had, up until that moment, been playing 1D concert videos. Coach Mooney's face was splashed across the screen.

"Turn it up!" Steve shouted. Liam complied.

On the Sochi News breaking bulletin, newspaper reporter (and evidently television reporter as well) Kyle Massey was talking. "Secret Police officials have finally agreed to release the surveillance footage taken outside of Hotel Rwanda late last night that captured the hit-and-run of Olympic coach Paul Mooney," he said, shuffling the papers in front of him. "Sources confirm that this footage is the smoking gun in what led to the arrest of popular actor Dane DeHaan as a suspect in this slaying."

The surveillance video began to play. Don and Steve watched in abject horror the somewhat blurry footage detailing their beloved father figure getting #rekt by a sleek red convertible, broadcasted nationwide, audio included. "Annnnnd one more time," Kyle said, before broadcasting the clip again in slow motion. And then two more times, slowed down even more. "Wow," he said, "that was GORY. I sure hope Mr. Mooney's team wasn't watching, because that would be so incredibly emotionally scarring and unforgettable." Don let out a bitter sob.

The clip restarted, only this time, it froze as the convertible began to speed away. Kyle zoomed in on the license plate, made visible by a streetlamp the car had passed under. Plain as day, it said "OZBORN". "Officials believe this 'OZBORN' stands for 'Osborn', or 'Harry Osborn', a character that DeHaan played in The Amazing Spider-Man 2," Kyle explained. A mugshot of a weeping Dane DeHaan flashed on-screen next to the license plate. "Now, this clearly indicates that DeHaan brutally murdered Mooney, whether or not police have not managed to find the car yet and have no other way to tie it to DeHaan. There is no other solution to draw from the license plate. I don't know why they've even bothered to give DeHaan a trial. But," Kyle calmed himself, "I digress. Word from our sources at the Sochi Prison indicate that DeHaan intends to plead not guilty, which will be be interesting, as Roussey J. Voight will almost certainly tear him a new asshole." Kyle chuckled, and then looked nervous. "Did I just swear on ai--" The screen erupted into static and a loud blaring hum.

Everyone was silent. "Wow," said Liam, "that really WAS gory." Harry, and Louis nodded their assent.

Steve picked up the remote and changed the channel. More coverage of Paul Mooney's hit and run. The next channel--more on the hit and run. The next--the same. Every single channel was broadcasting the same bloody death of Mooney and, sometimes, clips of DeHaan weeping and pleading innocence behind holding cell bars. "Enough!" shouted Steve, throwing the remote control at the television. Both broke in a shower of glass. Harry shrieked and leapt to cover Louis.

"What the fuck, Steve?" Simon demanded. "Why the fuck did you just break my one of my twelve Armani-brand flatscreens? And with my pregnant son in the room?" He rushed to Louis's side, taking his hand up between two of his own. "Did any of the glass get near him?" he asked Harry. Harry shook his head. Simon breathed a sigh of relief.

At Don and Steve's quizzical expressions, Harry patted Louis's stomach. "We're expecting," he said, proudly. He and Louis shared a warm, Larry-filled look.

"But if they're your children, Simon, isn't that, like, incestuous?" Don said, looking vaguely horrified.

"Incestuous?" Simon laughed good-naturedly. He ruffled the hair of his two beautiful (inzêstuous) sons. "Oh, Mr. Cheadle. You clearly have little understanding of mpreg-born family dynamics."

"I thought he made them in a lab," mused Don, quietly.

"I need a fucking cold one," said Steve.

* * *

 **James Franco** @ jamesfrancotv  
@quintobean wtffff why didn’t u reply to my dickpic???? :’((((

* * *

 **Harry Styles** @ harry_styles  
any suggestions for baby names for me and louis?! :-)

 **Joe Biden** @ gogoJOE  
@harry_styles joe :D

 **Harry Styles** @ harry_styles  
:/

* * *

Mornings in the Mackle No More League van were always ones of domestic bliss. Though their hotel room was nice, the van held all of their more important equipment--computers, radars, heavily notated and well-loved editions of _Sex, Love, and You_ \--and Terrence’s growing fixation on pinning down Macklemore’s location led to more and more sleepless nights doing overnight research in it. Ben, Ludacris, and Cuba simply joined him out of courtesy.

As Ben made breakfast on the fold-up stovetop they’d installed in the back of the driver’s seat last May, Terrence gestured wildly at the blinking radars adorning the left wall of the van. He wasn’t saying anything, just gesturing. He did that when he was stressed. It made them all uncomfortable. “Yes, ‘Rance, I see the radars,” Ben said. One of Terrence’s hands stopped its gesticulating long enough for Ben to shove a mug of coffee into it.

There was loud swearing mingled in with shouts of joy from further down the van, and Ben gave a long suffering sigh. While it was true that _some_ of them had been doing research all night, another some of them had chosen to play Mario Kart instead. “Peach annihilates all!” he heard Cuba screech, as Ludacris protested with a loud speech lauding all of Yoshi’s virtues.

“They could at least try to help me,” Terrence said, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. At least he had stop the hand motions. “I can’t draw a single coherent solution from all this data.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Terrence had turned on their patented Homosexual Activity Tracking Radar the previous night for the first time since they’d entered Sochi and, instead of seeing a couple blips every few miles like they were used to, were instead faced with a screen going haywire with tiny blinking red dots. It was too much for the poor machine, and it overheated and shorted out nearly seconds later. “It’s just not possible,” Terrence had groaned. “If the radar was correct, then there would’ve been people fucking literally _in the streets_ across Sochi. There has to be interference, or some type of…residual energy.”

“ _What_ _kind_ ,” Ben had insisted, “of object can cause that much interference? And don’t give me that residual energy bullshit, this isn’t _Long Island Medium_. The H.A.T.R. is foolproof, Terrence, foolproof.” He should know; he built it. Its sole purpose was to locate spots Macklemore could hit next. It was designed to weed out interference, to ignore anything that wasn’t _here_ and _now_. “I know it, and you know it.”

And so the night had gone on. Terrence frantically checked for feedback on their Macklemore radars for any, _any_ sign of the rapper. Ben tried to get the Radar back up and running again. Cuba and Luda raced the Mario Kart Grand Prix an obscene amount of times and drank an obscene amount of Mountain Dew. None of them had slept.

“Goooooood morning Krusty Krew!” Zach greeted brightly, kicking down the door to the Mackle No More League Van. Behind him, Chris popped in with a tray of Tsarbucks. “Unfortunately, all they had were the Vodka Frappes,” Zach continued, “but I knew it’d be appreciated all the same.” He passed them out. Ben took one gratefully, still fiddling with the radar.

“It’s no use,” he bemoaned, shoving the radar away. “It’s broken for good, unless I figure out a way to upgrade it to withstand the frankly overwhelming gay airwaves.”

Terrence sipped the coffee drink and made a face. “This is disgusting,” he said, and then added, “But better than Ben’s coffee. And speaking of you, Ben, you know we have that file, right? The Known Homosexuals file?” He took another sip and shuddered. “Granted, it’s nowhere near as good as our radar, but it’ll do for now.”

“I’ll get it,” said Chris, looking bored. “I left my good pair of sunglasses up there anyway.” He chucked up the peace sign and then jogged out; the League had briefed him on where all the important documents were ages ago after his official induction into their force.

“Soooo,” Ludacris said, lounging up against the wall next to Zach. “How was _your_ night?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows. One of the main reasons the rest of the League had spent the night in the van was because Chris, Zach, and Jack had taken up the entire hotel room with their wild marathon sex. They didn’t even notice when Cuba snuck in for his toothbrush.

Zach turned pink, and shrugged. “You know. A night. We had a threesome with a lawyer.”

“Niiiiiiiice,” Cuba said, giving them a thumbs up, as Terrence made a scandalized sound.

“Really, Zach, at a drastic time like this--”

Chris burst in through the Van doors, panting. His sunglasses were dangling off his face. “The file’s gone,” he said, wildly. “I checked the drawer it should’ve been in--under the dildo and above the mints--and it’s _gone_.”

Ben gasped. “How can it be _gone_? Who would’ve taken it?”

“Oh, shit,” groaned Zach in realization. Chris looked sheepish. “Okay, so the lawyer we slept with, um, _may_ have mentioned working a case where a file like that would’ve come in reeeeally handy. I’m not saying he _may_ have duped us into a threesome to steal the file, but I mean, the League’s not exactly… _subtle_ about intelligence we collect.”

“What the _fuck_?” Terrence exclaimed.

“Looks like we have a new top mission!” Zach continued, nervous.

* * *

"Babe," Kim K called from her bed as she scrolled through her Twitter timeline. God, those politicians were being petty. After wondering what "silence is the most powerful scream" meant, she came to the realization that her husband had yet to answer her. "Babe?! Kanye? Where are you?" 

Upon receiving silence, she, with some trepidation, tiptoed from the bed to the other side of the large suite. Amazingly, her husband was sitting in the loveseat, texting on his phone. "Honey, you didn't hear me? What are you doing?" 

"Texting my child," he grunted. 

Kimberly beamed. "You found North! I can't believe it! I thought we were gonna have to send a search party out, or something." North had been missing for about three days at this point, which marked the third fetal disappearance that week. Famous toddlers Blue Ivy and Prince George were also at large. 

Yeezy guffawed, however that sounds. "Of course I didn't! I'm texting my _other_ child! Zayn!" He shoved the phone screen in her face, showing a conversation between the young ethereal being and himself. 

Kim was floored. Tear began to well in her orbs. "That's kinda fucked up, Ye." 

"Your half-sister is fucking the worst rapper in the game rn, who just so happens to be like, a jillion years older than her. Don't tell me what's fucked up, haanh?" 

Kim shrugged. "Tru." 

* * *

"You know what would sound super yummy right now?" Louis voiced to the nearly empty kitchen of Simon's mansion, save for himself and Steve. Steve sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day. The remaining memebers of the boyband had left to go purchase diapers and a crib from Babies R'Us, leaving Steve behind to watch over the pregnant boy; the international popstars had convinced Don to come along with them for a good "cheering up".

"Pickle-flavored ice cream with a touch of old bay on top," Lewis answered before Steve could even think of anything to say. God, he had been through a pregnancy before...many years ago of course, with someone he had loved dearly........but it had been nothing like this.

The cravings had been wild, the mood swings had caused more than one black eye, and the constant whining had left everyone with a bad taste in their mouth, except, of course, the father's.

"Honey, we're home! We have everything for the baby shower now!" called Harry into the abode as he walked through the threshold. Louis gasped at the sight of his lover. Unfortunately, as he was bedridden, he could not rush to greet Harry.

Liam and Don entered after them, Don with a brand new diaper bag slung over his shoulder and several new stuffed animals under his arms. "Oh Steve, we had such a good time!" he exclaimed after catching sight of his closest friend looking grouchy on the sofa. He dropped the stuffed animals to the floor. "We got to drive Simon's car and the paps took photos of ME--can you believe it!--and then Liam, Niall, and Harry broke into a spontaneous concert at Babies-R-Us, and Harry told me I was a really great guy...." He sighed dreamily. He had known the British singer for a little over an hour and yet he felt such a connection...a bond....could this be love? And so soon after Paul's death--after--after _James_....

"That's great," Steve grumbled. He had wheeled out one of the spare Armani brand televisions from the closet down the hall where Naughty Boy's body was stuffed, regretting his rash decision to break the earlier one, and his eyes were glued to its screen. The station was still playing coverage of Paul's homicide, only this time, with added psychoanalysts offering discourse on Dane DeHaan. "Bullshit to whatever the secret police say," one of them was saying, "this was not a hit and run. This was deliberate. The driver knew what they were doing and had a motive. DeHaan has NO TIES whatsoever to Mooney, and NO MOTIVE. To suggest otherwise--"

"I think she's right," Steve said gruffly. He hadn't looked away, despite all the noise One Direction (sans Niall, who had been suspiciously absent for a week, and Zayn, who had been adopted by Kanye West) was making ahh-ing over the baby supplies. "I don't think that kid killed Coach Mooney." It didn't add up to him, either; this was more than a hit and run--it meant something to the killer, it was meant to be personal. He could sense it. The driver fucking ran over Coach Mooney several times. It was GORY. They knew Coach Mooney better than anyone, and he would've told them if he had a beef with some twink actor that would result in his own death.

"--and then we went out for breakfast and Harry said soooo many funny things, I think he's the one, Steve--"

"Are you _still_ on about that fucking boyband?" growled Steve, abruptly breaking his train of thought just as it was leaving the metaphorical station. "Coach Mooney is _dead_ , you ass!"

Don froze. "Harry will understand me," he said, tearfully. He turned around to face the boy. "Harry, Steve just--"

His face fell in shock. Harry was kissing Louis! He couldn't believe Harry would cheat on him like this, after he'd deluded himself into thinking they were a couple for a whole HOUR! "What the fuck?" said Don.

"What?" said Harry, brow creasing in confusion. He hovered protectively over his lover.

"What the fuck are you doing cheating on me with this blond whore?!" Don turned to Louis as the boy gasped. "Yeah that's right, I called you a whore, and I don't intend to take it back."

"Don," said Harry, even more bewildered, "you and I aren't in a relationship..."

"Damn right we're not!" sobbed Don, running out the door and bumping into Zayn, who had finally come back from Kanye's own winter home in Sochi. "Oh, this is just like James all over again...!"

Zayn watched him retreat. "What the fuck was that about?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know why he thought we were dating, I mean, Louis and I are clearly in a loving relationship--"

"Louis, Louis, Louis, that's all anyone cares about!" shouted Zayn. "Niall died last week and none of you even NOTICED!"

Steve slowly edged out of the room. He didn't want any part in this, or with Don's drama. He needed a walk to clear his head; maybe to mull over the case. If only the Hotel had more security footage... And besides, pregnancies always made him want to brood. They brought up too many forgotten memories--forgotten memories he'd willed forgotten.

* * *

  **Don Cheadle** @ doncheadle  
@louis_tomlinson hey boyfriend stealer I mean louis

* * *

 

 **Zayn Malik** @ zaynmalik  
the only ppl who RLLY get me.......I have to keep a secret. damn @FreshBI blood contract pact of secrecy

 **Steve Harvey** favorited this

* * *

 

 **Sochi News** @ SochiNews  
MORE BREAKING NEWS: Notorious reign of crime by Sochi’s own Ass-Eater ended in arrest made by FreshBI this morning.

“Hey, uh, guys,” said Zach, nervously, holding up his cell phone. Jack Falahee’s mugshot was attached to the Sochi New’s latest tweet. “I think I know where to find Jack.”

* * *

"Anthony!" Sebastian shouted, pounding on Anthony Mackie's door. He was starting to regret not wearing pants. Luckily, there was no one around, because otherwise his ass might've ended up on the cover of _Entertainment Weekly_ or something. He knocked again. "This is important!"

The door opened. Anthony took in Sebastian's appearance and was silent for a few seconds. Then he shrugged and started to take off his shirt. "Just jumping right into it, okay," he said, nonchalantly. “Rough night, then?”

"No--" Sebastian shook his head. "I'm not here to have sex with you. There's something I need to tell you." He paused. "Unless you want me to have sex with you in which case I'll tell you after." (Note: the authors implore you to read [the source material](https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9947764/1/What-The-Duck) where this line came from.)

Anthony frowned, arm halfway out of his shirt. "Just tell me why you’re here, then."

"I had sex with Chris last night and this morning I woke up and I realized that it's not just him I have feelings for, Anthony, I've fallen in love with you too," Sebastian said in a rush.

"You had--" Anthony stared at his friend, wide-eyed. "Hold on, I'm still trying to process the first part of that."  
Sebastian's heart was pounding. “I’m in love with Chris, but I’m in love with you too, and now I really have to go because I’m due at the slopes in a few hours, wish me look!” He took off sprinting down the hall again.

Anthony stood motionless at his hotel room door for a few seconds, and then said “What the fuck just happened.”

* * *

Foremost General Hardness (the D was silent), a man who looked strikingly similar to Nick Offerman, narrowed his eyes at the group of men in front of him milling about the FreshBI building’s lobby. All were wearing the official FreshBI uniforms--navy blue t-shirts and black booty shorts, with official FreshBI cheap plastic badges--and yet he had never seen any of the men before in his life. Was this a ruse? A ploy? Had his cover been blown and those goddamn Reds come back for him after all these years? Foremost G. Hardness (the D was silent) swore inwardly. Christ, he wasn’t in the mood to fake his death again. F.G.H. pulled his booty shorts up impossibly higher and prepared to face the interlopers--Commies or not.

“Atteeeeen-SHION,” he ordered, and the six men abruptly stopped their conversing and snapped into salute.

“Is there a problem, General Hardness, sir?” the gay-looking one of the bunch asked, voice wavering as much as his posture. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

General Hardness looked the gay in the face straight(lmao)-on, poking a finger aggressively at his chest. “The ‘D’ is silent, you goddamn pansy son of a bitch,” General Hardness (the D was silent) growled foremostly. Any good FreshBI agent--and all of F.G.H.’s former lovers--could tell you that, pun intended or not. The kid looked more like a liberal hippie vegan than a warrior on capitalism, though, so F.G.H. breathed a sigh of relief--his cover was safe for now. “And why don’t you tell me, eh?” he continued, “You and your little friends are looking real suspicious.”

The other five men began sweating profusely as well. “S-suspicious?” the gay said. “I don’t know--”

“You did it, didn’t you?” Foremost General Hardness (the D is silent) snarled, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth. The gay began to cry. “You _STOLE FIZZY LIFTING DRINKS_!” At the gay’s teary-eyed and open-mouthed confusion, the Foremostest General to ever lead the ranks of the FreshBI raised his longsword threateningly at him. Turning to the other five men, he yelled “ARREST HIM!”

The men all jumped, and then repeated “ARREST HIM!” in turn. No one moved to arrest the gay. This was _just like_ the incident with the Private during that raid in Oz earlier this month _and_ this morning’s incident all over again.

“Jesus fucking Christ, _why_ did I think promoting everyone to generals would be a good idea,” Foremost General Hardness (the D was silent) grumbled. It was a good idea, they said. It would boost morale, they said. The only thing it was boosting was General Hardness’s blood pressure levels. He grabbed onto the back of the gay’s collar, hauling him down the hall towards the interrogation rooms. “A general will be sent in shortly to question you, you sick Wonka-loving son of a bitch,” F.G.H. said venomously, shoving the gay into one of the rooms and handcuffing him to an uncomfortable straight-backed chair.

F.G.H slammed the door behind him. “You,” he said, snapping his fingers at a general that was walking shiftily towards the room where the most important FreshBI records were held. The guy had a mustache, though, and any FreshBI agent with any training knew that all modern communists were cleanshaven--so definitely an honest, trustworthy guy. The general saluted in acknowledgment. “Talk to this guy for me, will you?” F.G.H. ordered, only half-paying attention when the general nodded; he had more pressing issues on his mind to deal with. He needed...to see Roussey.

* * *

“So should we go save Zach, orrr…?” Chris said, looking apprehensively over the tops of his sunglasses down the hallway at the door Zach had just been forcefully shoved through. Generals marched down halls left and right. Some of them were covered in something that looked like inky blood. There was a blood-chilling scream and what sounded like someone’s life force being devoured by a many-limbed beast from behind a door that was labeled “Public Relations”. Chris thought he could hear Zach sobbing somewhere. He slowly linked arms with Cuba.

Terrence, Ben, Cuba, and Ludacris were thoughtful. “Nah,” said Ben. “He’s a good distraction for that General Hardness guy.” Glass shattered somewhere.

“The D is silent,” Ludacris corrected him. He shifted uncomfortably in his booty shorts, hopping in place a little. “Can we please hurry the fuck up and find this guy before my junk is permanently damaged?”

A general who looked suspiciously like Adam Sandler (because it was Adam Sandler) sauntered down the hall past the remaining League members. Terrence cleared his throat. “Excuse me, General,” he said, reaching out to tap Sandler on the shoulder. “Can you tell me where the holding cells are located?”

Adam Sandler turned around and looked the League up and down. “Who are you, exactly?” he said, raising an eyebrow. Suddenly, he brightened. “Say, are you the new recruits?!” At the League’s frantic nodding, Adam beamed. “Oh boy, you’re just in time for the last round of recruits’ graduation ceremony. I’m in it!” he finished excitedly. He motioned for the League to follow him down the hall towards a door labeled “Gymnasium”. Ludacris gave Terrence a “if my pants weren’t so tight and we weren’t surrounded by the secret police I’d glare at you right now but as it is I think my dick just fell off” look (and don’t we all know THAT look well!)

Adam opened the door to reveal a group of (mostly) young, bright-eyed graduating recruits in the same get-up that the rest of the generals were wearing lining up excitedly. Adam waved, and a few of them waved back. “Hey gang!” Adam called. “Let’s give a good show to the next recruits!” They all cheered. Adam whipped out his iPhone and placed it in a dock, then went to stand at the back of the line behind Colin Firth. For a few seconds, it was silent.

Sisqo raised the empty water jug (gathered from the nearby junkyard where the older officers tended to go for a quick smoking break), and banged a descaled model steel beam (stolen from the George Bush exhibit in the National Sochi Museum of Conspiracies) against it eight times in beat while shouting, "UH HUH THIS MY SHIT, ALL THE GIRLS WANNA BE LIKE THIS".

Suddenly, in perfect formation, the freshly graduated officers began performing back flips off of crates and doing well executed splits as Gwen Stefani's hit "Hollaback Girl" played from Adam Sandler's iPhone speakers.

The League fled.

* * *

Bob Saget zipped up his mink jacket as he stepped outside for what felt like the first time all winter. He was a child of the summer, and refused to let his blessed skin come in contact with anything resembling snow. However, he had a strange impulse to leave his loft apartment, and take a leisurely stroll through the beautifully hideous town of Sochi. 

He waved multiple greetings to other tourists, stopping to take a photograph with an eager fan or two. He shoved his long, pale hands into his pockets. Maybe he could get used to the cold. 

All was well until he heard something that vaguely resembled a wail. It was coming from the alleyway across the street. 

As much as he wanted to ignore it, and carry on with his day or R&R, he let his fatherly instincts take over, and quickly crossed the street. By the time he reached the alley, the wails had multiplied by three. 

There, behind a dumpster that smelled of wrongdoings and anti-capitalist sentiments, were three sobbing toddlers. 

Without hesitation, the former sitcom star threw off his jacket, and somehow managed to swaddle all three fetuses with it. He needed to get them to safety. 

"Wait until John and Dave hear about this..." He whispered into the fur fabric. 

* * *

The interrogation room was cold and dark and there was something that looked like blood smeared across the shattered and partially boarded-up two-way mirror. Zach Quinto didn’t know what sort of horrors were wrought in the FreshBI interrogation rooms, but he did know he didn’t want to be caught alone with that General Hardness guy in broad daylight, let alone in a scary-ass place like this. He struggled with the handcuffs. He was entirely willing to cut off a hand or two to get them off.

The door suddenly opened. Another FreshBI agent walked in, mustachioed and grim. _Oh, God_ , thought Zach, beginning to cry all over again, _I'm too young to be court-marshaled_. The officer took a step towards him, and Zach winced. "Listen, officer," he said, shaking in his seat, "this is all a huge misunderstanding. I--"

In one quick move, the general unlocked his handcuffs. Zach blinked, flexing his wrists instinctly. "Uh?" The general took the seat opposite him and leaned in close.

"What is the nature of your relationship with James Franco?" he demanded.

" _What_?" And that was when Zach realized who the guy was. He knew that bald head and bushy mustache; it was _Family Feud_ host turned figure skater Steve Harvey. The only thing different about him were the booty shorts and plastic badge. It didn't make anything less confusing. It actually did the opposite.

"I saw James Franco tweeting you flirty things this morning," said Steve, simply. "How long have you been seeing him?"

"Not at all," Zach replied quickly. "We're not--I'm dating someone else. He's just been hitting on me for, like, two weeks." He scrambled to get his phone from his pocket, and pulled open his text log with James. He bared it to Steve. "See?"

Steve took it, scrolling through. His expression darkened. "' _You're the only one I've ever loved_ ,'" Steve read aloud, "dated three days ago.” He continued scrolling, getting visibly angrer with each text. “He sent you a compilation of his best selfies?!” Disgusted, he shoved the phone back at Zach. "He's been lying to Don the whole goddamn time," he said under his breath, “I _knew_ it.”

There was a palpable, awkward silence. “So…” said Zach. “I didn’t know you were a FreshBI agent.”

“What?” said Steve. He looked down at his uniform. “Oh. I broke in, same as you.” Really, it was lucky on Steve’s part that he happened to be sneaking towards the records room at the exact moment General Hardness picked this kid up and needed a general. Saved Steve a trip later tonight. Even then, he should really be thanking Zayn and his vaguetweets for giving him the idea.

“So that’s why there was already someone in the alley…” Zach mumbled in realization, recalling the awkward moment earlier that day when the League mugged six FreshBI agents for their uniforms and, when they’d gone to stuff their unconscious bodies in an alleyway, discovered that another unconscious FreshBI agent was already lying there. He squinted at Steve. “Wait, why did you break in here?”

“To steal security footage taken at Hotel Rwanda,” Steve said simply. “You?”

“To steal a file back from the Sochi Ass-Eater,” Zach replied.

Both men nodded. “Good luck,” they wished each other at the same time, and both exited the interrogation room.

* * *

Wackily, just as Zach stepped out of the door after giving Steve a few seconds head start, the League happened to be fleeing from the be-shorted men butchering Gwen Stefani’s beloved hit and a hilarious _Scooby Doo_ -esque collision occurred. “Zach!” Chris cried, hugging his lover to him and finally breaking the vibe of “stoic confidante” he’d been giving off since their arrival in Sochi. “I thought you were being tortured!” He swept his _Star Trek_ costar into a passionate kiss, much to the dismay of Cuba, whose head was crammed between their two (well-toned) chests.

Ludacris’s voice, extraordinarily muffled, came from the bottom of the pile of the League. “RIP my balls.”

After a few seconds of equally hilarious and wacky detangling, involving literally prying Cuba out from between Zach and Chris and Terrence nearly tackling Ludacris to the ground so he couldn’t take off his two-sizes-too-small shorts, the League was finally back in order. “K,” said Chris, “where the fuck are the holding cells.”

Coincidentally, just as he said that, a door with “HOLDING CELLS” written on it in large block letters opened right behind him and sent him flying to the ground again. His sunglasses went flying as well. Cuba snorted. Terrence flashed his badge at the general that was exiting the cells, and after a few seconds of awkward back and forth saluting, the League (with Chris bringing up the rear, examining his sunglasses and muttering “These are Ray’s Bens™…”) scrambled inside.

The door slammed shut behind them, and a bored voice said “It took you long enough.”

Jack Falahee sat in the first holding cell on the right side, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked strangely bare in the absence of his usual hipster scarf, and his hair wasn’t up to its artfully tousled standards. He watched the League with disinterest. “I don’t suppose you’re going to break me out?”

“Jack,” said Zach, grabbing onto the bars of his cell. “We know you took the file.”

“What file?” said Jack, feigning even more boredom.

“The file listing all the known homosexuals in the Sochi area,” Terrence cut in. He stretched out his hand through the bars. “Now just give it back to us and we’ll pay your bail.”

Jack looked at Terrence’s outstretched hand. After a few seconds, he sighed. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“ _What_?”

Jack scowled. “Look, it wasn’t anything personal against your little _League_ ,” he said, with a pointed look at Zach and Chris. “We were working a case for Hotel Rwanda--Sochi versus Hotel Rwanda--and we needed to disprove Sochi’s claim that that everyone remotely on the LGBT spectrum was stationed at the hotel, so it wouldn’t be fined.” He made a face. “Some bullshit homophobic law about big Sochi businesses like Hotel Rwanda not marketing enough towards the straights and taking unfair advantage of its gay reputation. The file would’ve proved that Hotel Rwanda wasn’t _nearly_ as gay as the Sochi city council dictatorship was claiming. But,” he added glumly, “it doesn’t even matter anymore. The judge threw the case out to make room for the DeHaan one and we took it on, so we threw the file out too. Just to be sure no one else got to it. And then I got fucking arrested.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “Even after Guy Fieri himself went to court to prove that ass-eating is a delicacy.” (That should be allowed in all restaurants.)

“You _threw out the file_?!” Terrence half-sobbed. Ben put a consoling hand on his shoulder. “With our file gone and the radar dead, what the hell are we supposed to do now to figure out where Macklemore is headed next?”

Chris looked at the ground, pointedly avoiding looking any of the League in the eye. But Zach snapped his fingers. “We won’t have to find out where he’ll go next,” he said, “because it’ll be to us.”

“Really?” said Terrence, looking unimpressed and probably still #salty about Chris and Zach costing them the file. “And just _how_ exactly are we going to lure Macklemore, master of treachery and sleuth, to us?”

Zachary Quinto smiled. “Easy,” he said. “With the power of the theater.”

“Sooooo...are you going to bail me out, or what?” said Jack, not following the conversation or caring.

* * *

"I want the world to know about how I feel about Lois," stated Harry as he wrapped the rainbow flag around his body. "I want everyone to know that it is my seed growing inside of him at this very moment." 

"Harry, you're making big mistake! Your fans....what about your fans???" Simon shouted as he tried and failed to rip the fabric off of his son. 

Lewy rubbed his enlarged gut. "They would want us to be honest with them. They want us to show them that we care. Not just about them, but for each other." He gave a loving look towards his brother/lover. Horton gave a doe-eyed look back. 

"I'm gonna do it, Simon! And. You. Can't. Stop me!" He ran onto the stage, roaring with all his might as he gayed around the stage. 

* * *

The Harlem Globetrotters theme tune played in the background as Team We Genie did warmups in the comfort of their personal basketball court. They dribbled, ran laps, and tried to recreate Captain Michael Jordan's iconic slam dunk. Naturally, they all failed (except for Mr. Jordan, himself, of course), but this wasn't the thing that lowered their spirits and hopes to win the game. 

"Where's this guy of yours, Like Mike?" demanded Lebron James as he spun a basketball (deliberately) on his middle finger. It had been days since the captain had referred the team to his old b-ball buddy, Bugs, calling him up and ensuring that he'd arrive in Sochi by the time of their first game. However, said game was to take place that night, and Bugs had yet to show. Tensions were rising amongst the team, and as cap, Michael had to diffuse it. 

"Don't call me--well actually, _Like Mike_ was a quality film. I personally believe that Lil Bow Wow did an exquisite job portraying the inner struggle of juggling fame, loneliness, and sheer talent. It truly deserved the 2002 Oscar for Best Film." 

Lebron popped the ball in anger. "No one cares about that _Annie-but-with-basketball_ rip-off, where the hell is Bugs?!" 

"Bitch! First of all, how dare--" 

"Da-da-dada-dada!" Sung a harmonious voice from the entrance of the court. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance?" 

Michael beamed. "Bugs! It's you! It's really you!" He sprinted to engulf the animated rabbit in a giant Chicago Bears hug. Yes, that's a football team. Bugs appreciated it anyway. 

"You really thought I would leave you behind in your time of need with these bozos?" Bugs gestured towards the three other Olympic bball all-stars. "I'm not nearly that cruel." He used an animated furry thumb to wipe a single tear from Michael's cheek. Or maybe it was sweat. It was sweet regardless. 

In the distance, certified bozo Lebron James began to cackle hysterically. "You're--lordt! You're fucking joking right?" He was on the freshly polished ground now, quite literally Rolling on the Floor Laughing. Shaquille sneered in his general direction for the literal use of the archaic term. 

MJ frowned. "I don't see what's so funny, James." To the captain's chagrin, Lebron ignored this statement and continued with his self-induced hysteria. "As the best NBA player alive, I command you to stop!" 

This succeeded in getting Lebron to get with the fucking program, although not for the reason Michael was going for. "You? The greatest NBA player alive? Bullshit!" Lebrony wiped imaginary dust off of his pristine Nike™ muscle tank. "Who won the title of MVP in 2015? Not you," he pointed at his superior and his rabbit friend. "And sure as hell not you," he then directed his finger at the genie, who shimmied in response. 

"Bitch," Shaq began. "You literally lost the championship to a toddler. Keep my name out ya mouth." 

Lebron winced, but pressed on as he tried to shake the memories of his loss out of his head. "I never actually said your name." 

"But you thought it! And _that's_ all that matters." 

"Look, I wasn't coming for you personally, I just--" 

"Square the fuck up! Right now!" The floating being rose his translucent fists up, prepared to trade blows. It was reminiscent of an idle fighting pose in basically any video game. Lebron couldn't help but chuckle. 

"What?! You thought that was funny?" He threw a fist towards Lebron's face, but the headband-clad man was able to duck in time. "Why I oughta!"

"Guys! Guys!" Cap called, trying and failing to neutralize the situation. He looked to his old friend for help, who simply winked. The bunny put two fingers and his mouth and dog-whistled, successfully catching the feuding males' attention. "Thanks, Bugs," praised Michael with an air of warmth he saved only for his _Looney Toon_ -friends. 

"Look, we have absolutely zero time to be fighting right now. We are stacked against some pretty tough completion. I've played them before, way back in '97." He remembered the game well, the fear, the pain, the degradation. All of it.  "It was totally fucked up. Despite the fact that we won, I couldn't sleep for days. Bugs was there," he put an arm around the relatively smol animal. "And, that's why I invited him. We're the only two left that remember that game, and know how to defeat them. It involved some pretty risky maneuvers, but it was worth it." 

The previously sparring men were terrified. Never had they heard of such a daunting game. "What's their name? They Who Nearly Ended You, I mean." This team was so widely feared, that they had, ever since that game, been known as "They Who Nearly Ended Michael Jordan". They had not only almost ruined his career, but had also immortalized the man, the myth, the legend, the jam.

Michael took a shuddering breath. "Their name...their name is..." He couldn't do it. How could he even face them again if he couldn't even utter their name?

"They're called the MonStars." Bugs finished for him, laying a comforting paw (are they called paws? Do rabbits have paws?) on his comrade's back. Michael gave him a thankful smile. 

"Damn..." Shaq was floored. What a name. "Well, I suppose all we can do now is practice. Tonight, we shall come out victorious, no matter what the outcome." 

"That's not...how it works. You either win or you lose, O'Neal." Lebron countered.

"Hey, 'Bron? Shut up. Put your hands in the middle, men!" 

The four (we know there's five to a basketball team we've both been on middle school basketball teams don't drag us) put their hands in the circle, and pumped three times as they all cheered, "We ain't men, we genie!!!" 

* * *

Surprisingly, the FreshBI’s “Government Secrets, Constant Surveillance, and Vending Machines” wing wasn’t heavily guarded. Steve was able to waltz right in with as little as a tip of a nonexistent hat at the general who was standing watch at the department entrance. Aside from that, the doors emblazoned with stuff like “HALL OF WORLD LEADERS WHO ARE ACTUALLY A BUNCH OF LIZARDS IN TRENCHCOATS”, “THE TRUTH BEHIND JET FUEL RE: STEEL BEAMS” and “SECRET INTERDIMENSIONAL PORTAL (THAT MUST NEVER BE SPOKEN OF) TO A HELLSCAPE INHABITED ENTIRELY BY SOUL-DEVOURING DEMONS AND A SENTIENT VOID” (to name a few) weren’t even locked. There was, however, an armed squadron of FreshBI agents standing watch outside the vending machine room. You can never be too careful, one of the generals explained.

Finding the room labeled “24/7 SOCHI-WIDE CAMERAS” was a breeze (directly in between the rooms labeled “GUY FIERI SHRINE” and “TOP SECRET PEPES”). What wasn’t a breeze, however, was sorting through the fuck-ton of backlogged footage in all of the FreshBI’s computer system files. The room in itself was a maze of computers and filing cabinets and essentially no lighting, and even though Steve had checked to make sure that he was alone in the room before he began his investigation, he was still a little weary. Steve was a man on a mission, though; a man on a mission determined to clear Dane DeHaan’s name and bring Paul Mooney’s _real_ killer to justice. Zayn’s tweet had given him the idea--what better place to discover the truth than an agency that is essentially the secret police? There just _had_ to be some footage proving DeHaan’s innocence or indicating someone else in the hit-and-run.

He reached a file named _Hotel Rwanda--Paul Mooney_ dated the previous night and played it. It was the exact same footage the news outlets had been broadcasting all day, so nothing new. Steve rewound it again to be sure, let out a frustrated sigh, and clicked on the footage taken outside Hotel Rwanda for earlier last night instead. Nothing was out of the ordinary whatsoever. He saw a few people drunkenly stumble out of cabs and into the lobby--the gay he’d freed from the interrogation room being one of them--and the very tip of the hood of the red convertible pull up just within the sight of the cameras moments before what he knew would lead directly into his beloved coach’s demise. Letting out an irritated sigh, he exited the footage.

As Steve skipped absent-mindedly through footage taken every single spot in Sochi for the past forty-eight hours, his mind began to wonder to James Franco again. That son of a bitch had been leading Don on since the very beginning, and Don was just too lovestruck to notice. The coffee dates, the gushing about his film roles, making a sex tape as a declaration of “love”--all fake. Franco’s attempted--for lack of a better word--canoodling with that kid from earlier only proved it.

Steve’s inner monologue was interrupted by a loud _beep_ from the computer; an error message had popped up. “‘Password needed to access this file’?” he said aloud, surprised. He didn’t even realize he’d been jumping through security footage this whole time. He bitterly doubted it would be anything important, but decided he may as well check it out. He clicked on the message. Another box popped up, demanding _ENTER SECRET WORD_ in large, bold letters. Steve thought for a few seconds. The secret word? What secret word?

“The secret word…” he thought aloud, “is…” He thought back to high school English class and took a wild guess. “Zeugma?” He typed it in. Instantly the file opened, revealing an excess of other files within it. The latest was dated yesterday morning, the earliest going as far back as months ago. There was no name for any of them. Steve opened the latest one.

The camera footage opened on a dirty alleyway, where--

“Holy _shit_ ,” Steve said.

“Yes,” agreed a voice behind Steve, before Steve was knocked unconscious.

* * *

 **Don Cheadle** @ doncheadle  
wtf has anyone seen steve? :(

 **James Franco** favorited this

* * *

The power of the theater, as it turned out, involved a whole lot of cross-dressing, manual labor, and Zach sitting in a director’s chair and yelling at everyone to do both.

“Let’s move it, people!” Zach shouted through a megaphone, “I need the court of Athens done in ten minutes tops!” He pointed at Michael. “That means you, Meyers. Jesus Christ, how long does it take to construct an exact replica of a Greek palace?” Michael “Mike” Meyers briefly considered firing his nail gun at Zach, but then realized that the subsequent lawsuit wouldn’t be worth it. It was better than organizing magazines and making coffee like they had been doing back at the League’s hotel room all morning, at any rate.

“I just don’t see how putting on a play will suddenly make Macklemore come out of hiding,” Terrence pointed out to Zach, as the _Shrek_ cast continued to slave away at construction. “I actually don’t even remember agreeing to your idea.” His brow creased. “How did we get here?”

The _here_ Terrence was referring to was actually life itself, as he was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion he was nothing but a character in a real person fiction fanfic, but for the sake of narration I’m going to pretend he meant the building the League was currently inside of. They were lucky in that they were able to find and rent out an abandoned amphitheater at an extremely affordable price at such late notice. They were less lucky in that the amphitheater used to be a weird exhibitionist sex club before it went bankrupt, and the ground was still littered with random sex toys and gently-used condoms (that Antonio Banderas was currently being forced to clean up).

Zach ignored almost all of what Terrence said. “Terrence, my friend,” he chuckled, “you underestimate me.” He gestured around them at the stage and the half-complete set and the costume rack of various dresses. “ _Nothing_ is more stereotypically gay than the theater. We homosexuals flock to the theater in fucking droves. And who do we know that is drawn to anything remotely gay?”

A look of dawning comprehension crossed Terrence’s face. “You mean…”

Zach smiled smugly, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We put on a play. The gayest play possible. I’m talking gay upon gay upon gay upon homosexual. All the gays in Sochi will come out of the woodwork for it. And like a moth to a flame, Macklemore is gonna be drawn to the gays--”

“--and right into our trap!” Terrence exclaimed.

“The play's the thing,” Zach agreed happily.

* * *

"What are we gonna do with three babies?" Dave Coulier asked as Bob rocked each of them to sleep in his arms. He shrugged, looking down at the lil baby heads of Prince George, North West, and Blue Ivy Carter-Knowles. Bob had no idea that when he had stumbled upon the tots that he had hit the baby jackpot, if you will. 

John Stamos scrubbed a hand over his still immaculate face. "We haven't raised kids since the 90's. To be completely honest I don't even remember how to change a diaper, or burp someone, or--" 

"These kids are at least three years old, and Blue's four I'm pretty sure. None of that'll be necessary." He cooed as one of the pups yawned. "Lets take 'em in fellas. We'd be great full time fathers, don't ya think?" 

Dave barked out a laugh. "And even if we aren't, it sure'd be a lot more entertaining than that shitty ass _Full House_ reboot, am I right"? 

John averted his gaze. "I kinda already signed the contract to that." 

Bob nodded. "I did, too." 

Dave slumped. "Well, fuck." 

* * *

It was snowing. Light, feathery clumps of most whitest white were floating downwards to join their brethren on the ground. Tourists, too of most whitest white, jumped in the fresh mounds of snow to interrupt such a reunion, catching hypothermia in the process. One poor son of a bitch was practically dead after his baby sister thought it'd be a cute idea to bury him alive. "It'll be just like at the beach!" she squealed before sending her brother to his doom. 

The ghost watching it all smiled, for he was used to this sort of thing. Not just the death part--he was a ghost after all--but that childlike innocence was something he admired, and secretly yearned for. He recalled watching his first godhuman as he had been, just as the now hysterical children were, playing in the snow with his beloved pooch. A grin broke on his face, before falling as fast as it came. His godhuman was successful now, with a beautiful wife and adorable kids. He had great friends and his dog was still at his side. But, the apparition lamented, he was not _happy_. 

John F. Kennedy was going to fix that, and immediately.    

He floated as fast he could, going through the walls of various marketplaces and office buildings, knowing that he didn't have any time to spare. The only way he was going to be able to pass on to the other side was if he made sure his ward saw the light. To fulfill his prophecy, he was going to have to make sure his godhuman did the same. 

It was dusk by the time he made it to the front steps of Hotel Rwanda. He was tired and hungry (says the author who takes all knowledge of the supernatural from _ParaNorman_ ), but he knew what he had to do. And before I can make a bad _Danny Phantom_ reference, JFK's ghost flew up and phased through the door of his seed. 

 _The Presidential Suite_ , the door read. 

* * *

The League’s play was coming along surprisingly well for something that had been decided on a whim not three hours earlier. After extensive, back-breaking work, Michael, Eddie, and Antonio had managed to create almost every single bit of scenery Zach had ordered (ranging as far as a simple forest to something that vaguely resembled a sex dungeon) and cleaned up almost all the condoms.

“Can we take a break now?” Michael begged. “We haven’t eaten in ten hours.”

“You can take a break when I say you can,” Zach snapped.

Ben stood in between the two before Michael could tackle Zach to the ground like he clearly wanted to. “You guys can take a break,” he said kindly, and the _Shrek_ cast immediately dropped all their tools and sprinted from the building.

“What the fuck?” said Zach, unnecessarily into his megaphone.

“You’re getting too into this,” Ben said. “ _Way_ too into this.” He gestured wordlessly at Zach’s director hat, monogrammed director’s chair, director’s megaphone, director’s _Directing For Dummies_ , director’s special seat cushion, and director’s satchel (the most important thing one can have as a director). It took Ben an unsurprisingly long amount of time to finish gesturing, and by the time he was done, everyone was little over the point he was trying to make.

“You haven’t even told us what the damn play _is_ yet,” Cuba complained.

“It’s an original work,” Zach said proudly. “By the most brilliant writer of our time: _me_.”

“About…?”

“Well,” said Zach, regarding his friends pensively as he tried to pick his words. How does one describe the work of a lifetime? One’s pride and joy? All one has ever cared about in life? This play was Zach’s masterpiece, started in the early days of his teenhood; he had been waiting and hoping for an excuse to produce it since finally finishing it in his junior year at college. “It’s somewhat _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ meets _Brokeback Mountain_ meets _Les Misérables_ meets _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ meets _Mayor of Casterbridge_ meets _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_. Though minus the singing. Well,” Zach paused. “Forget what I said about the singing. I don’t want to overrule the possibility entirely _just_ yet.”

Zach had started the play immediately upon reading _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ in his high school freshman English class and realizing he cared about every character but the main ones. The relationship problems of Hermia, Helena, Lysander, and Demetrius were nowhere near as interesting as the Mechanicals’ shared desire to impress everyone with their play at the wedding. Titania was nothing without her fairy handmaidens, especially the radiant fairy Cobweb. Did Philostrate’s loyalty to Theseus go beyond that of a revel master to hid duke--was it, perhaps, love? Zachary tackled all of these--and more-- in his play (possibly soon to be musical, he’d have to return to that idea), which he aptly named _Cobweb_ , after the fairy who received a much more prominent role in his adaptation.

(His next project was a retelling of _Our Town_ entirely from the point of view of Bessie the horse.)

Cuba flipped through one of the scripts Zach had somehow managed to print out in the timeframe of driving the five minutes from the Sochi Abandoned Properties Rental Building to the ex-sex club, making a face. “Why does Peter Quince have a four-page long soliloquy?”

Zach sighed. “If you _bothered_ to actually read it, Cuba, you’d know it’s because he’s telling the audience about his childhood dreams of becoming a famous director in America but being forced to give it up to become a carpenter after he accidentally sold his wife and child for food. Also,” Zach added, “America wasn’t actually a thing yet. I’m going for the whole _anachronistic social commentary_ angle.”

“Babe,” said Chris Pine, scanning the play over the tops of his Rays Ben’s™ brand sunglasses, “you know I love and support you unconditionally and sometimes even irrationally in everything you do, but isn’t having Puck fucking _kill_ Titania so he can be lovers with Oberon a bit overly dramatic?”

“Theater,” said Zach, a single tear running down his cheek, “ _is_ drama.”

Ludacris had been hanging onto Zach’s every word to that point and seemed extremely invested in the plot. “For--” he checked his script “--Act 6 Scene 13, where Cobweb the fairy realizes she’s in love with Peter Quince, wouldn’t it make sense to have an _On My Own_ kinda number, since he’s too devoted to the family he lost to return her feelings?”

All eyes turned in his direction, and Zach’s were filled with tears yet again (though this time of the proud variety).

“Luda, you beautiful robin of spring,” he exclaimed. “That’ll be a perfect segue into the part where Hermia, Lysander, Helena, and Demetrius plot to overthrow the tyrannical rule of the power-hungry Theseus--which,” Zachary’s eyes widened, “can _also_ be a musical number.”

"Get us a pencil and some paper!" shouted Ludacris, pointing at Ben, as he and Zach huddled together over the script. “We have a play to write!”

* * *

Sebastian clicked on the _Archive of Our Own_ search bar and quickly typed in “Anthony Mackie/Sebastian Stan/Chris Evans”.

* * *

Simon Cowell was worried; worried his life was falling apart, worried he was a bad father, worried that he was being too protective over Harry, worried about Lou’s pregnancy. Most importantly, he was worried about Randy. He missed Randy more than anything.

Simon sat alone in one of his twelve personal bedrooms in his winter home in Sochi, flipping through an album of photographs labelled “Simon and Randy BFFs 5Evr”. Inside were pictures of him and Randy and all their misadventures. Acting as judges on _American Idol_ , breaking into that mini-golf place that one time for a round of midnight golf, getting totally wasted at Paul Abdul’s most recent boat party… A lone tear rolled down his cheek and he held the album to his heart. Why, oh why, had Randy been ignoring him so much lately? Randy was practically his brother. Nothing came between them.

He glanced around the nearly barren bedroom he was curled up in, and began to cry. Being insanely rich and having a house of infinite rooms wasn’t half as fun if you didn’t have a best friend to share it with. He hoped that Randy was at least having fun somewhere.

* * *

“UNLOAD THOSE PRESENTS FASTER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson shouted at Randy Jackson, as the former  _American Idol_ judge wept and sobbed.

* * *

 

"Jerry!" Ray Romano yelled into the sea of faces crowded in front of yet another Russian tourist attraction. "Jerry, where are you?!" 

 

Martin Lawrence, who had joined them on their sightseeing adventure, patted the worried former sitcom star on the back. "Don't worry, Ray. He couldn't have gotten that far."

 

Raymond shook his head. "I can't believe we lost him. He said something about seeing a big chip?! I'm not sure. But then, out of nowhere, he vanished! Oh man, Queen Latifa is gonna kill me for losing her stepbrother."

 

Martin's eyebrows scrunched up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Since when are Jerry and Latifa related??!"

 

The other man laughed in spite of himself. "Their parents got married over the summer, don't you remember Marty?!" 

 

Mr. Lawrence had, in fact, not remembered such an occasion, but his admittance of this was cut off by a loud voice coming from the crowd. 

 

"Guys! Guys! You gotta see this! Fellas!" Out came a slightly weathered Jerry Seinfeld, grasping a potato chip in his hand. "Get a load of this big chip!"

* * *

A few hours, several pages, and a spontaneous musical number or two later, Zachary and Ludacris brandished their newly finished masterpiece to the rest of the League.

“Behold!” Zachary said triumphantly. “ _Cobweb_ is back and better than ever--now with musical accompaniment!”

“Do you really think we can learn this all by tonight?” Ben said with a frown. “I mean, this seems pretty involved. And we don’t even have a whole cast yet.” He waved the cast list that Zach had also managed to type up on the drive to the ex-sex club. Each member of the League had been casted, without their previous knowledge, desire, or consent. “The League only fills a few of the roles, and with you as director, we’re down by another…”

“Yeah, I mean, you said gays would ‘flock to this like a moth to a flame’,” Terrence said, liberally applying air quotes. “You didn’t even put up the posters.”

Zach looked furious, nearly throwing down his official director’s clipboard and ripping out his official director’s earpiece. Ben had neglected to gesture pointedly at both. “Fucking _Banderas_ was in charge of that.” He massaged his temples. “First the asshole insists on wearing that goddamn _Puss-N-Boots_ replica furry costume for Puck and then he can’t even put up a goddamn motherfucking piece of shit poster for some gays to--”

“Hi!” interrupted George Blagden cheerfully, holding one of the _Cobweb_ flyers in his hand. Zach froze in place. “I’m here for the play? I noticed it was a musical so I wrote a thirty minute long medley detailing the relationship between Enjolras and Grantaire in _Les Misérables_ to audition with, if that’s okay.”

“Like moths to a flame,” Zach said smugly to Ben and Terrence, all anger forgotten as he whipped out a script.

* * *

"The fuck kinda movie is this," young Prince George asked precociously once he had changed the channel from that _Caillou_ bullshit. On the screen spoke Terrence Howard and Ludacris as they fought inside of a black SUV. George's interest, needless to say, was piqued. 

North West crawled over to her frienemy. "What are you watching, Georgie?" 

At that exact moment, Robert Saget strolled into the living room, ready to feed  the babies his homemade baby food that had poisoned Blue Ivy(she now had a super tummy ache and was lying in her golden crib), when he caught the scene on his television that he had kept as a souvenir from the _Full House_ set. "D-dave!" 

David ran into the room, startled. "What's wrong, buddy?" 

Bobert pointed at the screen. " _That_."

Dave was appalled. "Turn that mess off!" 

Jonathan slid down the spiral staircase and flipped over the couch to retrieve the remote control and change the channel back to _Caillou_. "There ya go, ankle biters."

North cocked her head up at the Grecian man. "Watch ya back at night, bitch," she warned, before crawling back to her corner. 

John didn't sleep that night. 

* * *

More people actually did show up for auditions, as it turned out. Granted, it was only three people other than an overly-enthusiastic James Franco and two of them signed up to be on the crew, but people did show up. Zach made adjustments to the cast list accordingly, penciling James’s name next to Titania’s after the actor had finished his ten-minute monologue from _The Wolf of Wall Street._ He would do great things in that role.

As the next auditionee took the stage after James, James rushed over to Zach’s side. “Well?” he said, voice hushed. “How’d I do?”

Zach was too entranced by the performance of the girl onstage. She sang with such feeling, such pizazz. It was inspiring. It was nuanced. Avant-garde. It was a symphony. It brought a single tear to Zach’s eye. There was only one place for such talent--nay, such _perfection._ “Jitterbug #2,” whispered Zach. There was no Jitterbug #1 casted. There was no Jitterbug #1 written in the play.

Zach looked at his completed cast list. He nodded sagely. It was time.

* * *

"Look, Terrence," sighed Barack as he rubbed his temples. "The fact that we're friends on your TV show _does not_ mean that you can call me asking for whatever you want in real life. I'm not sending you a fleet of heat-seeking helicopters, and that's final." The League leader continued to speak on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, I'll buy the soundtrack on iTunes. Okay, you too, bye." He pressed the end button on his archaic af Blackberry. Loosening his tie and taking a seat next to Joe on the couch, he muttered, "like hell I'm spending cash on something I should have for free. Mp3skull here I come." ((((Shameless plug to watch _Empire_ season 2 drops September 23rd ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ))))

Joseph did not respond, begrudgingly scrolling through his Instagram profile, looking at pictures that he had himself taken only minutes ago. Barack figured that he was still upset about the whole Twitter thing, but nonetheless went on, knowing that Joe would get over it soon enough as he always did. "I was thinking of taking Bo for a nice walk, seeing as how stir crazy he's been getting. Wanna come with me? We can stop at that Drunken Donuts that Paul Mooney was apparently murdered in front of. It'll be fun!" Joe shut off his phone and tossed it aside, crossing his arms and ignoring the prez. "Come on, Joe, what's the problem?" 

"You hurt me. All I wanted was a lousy indirect and to be included but you and the others...I..." He grabbed his phone again and opened up Twitter, shoving the screen in Barack's face. 

"What does 'silence is the most powerful scream' even mean?" 

Joe threw the phone into the ceiling. "I don't know, okay!!! Just, fuck off Barry, fuck right off!" Joe covered his face with his hands, exhausted. 

Suddenly, Barack understood. "I get it: you feel bad. How do you think I feel when the republicans try to disrespect me with their phoniness? But, what do I do?" 

Joe's eyes peaked from between his fingers. "Tell them to fuck right off?" 

"No, I say later to the haters and remind them that their lives are insignificant. Remember the SOTU?" Where this event fits into this timeline, we have no idea.

"Where you made that wench Boehner cry?" 

"Exactly. You just gotta keep your cool, buddy. Now, who wants donuts soaked in rum?" 

Before Joe could answer, a blanket of cold air fell into the room, making him shiver. "I'd love to, but did you leave a window open or something? It's like -3 degrees in here!" 

POTUS blinked. "I don't feel anything. It's actually pretty toasty in here. Maybe you just need a scarf. I'll go get one." He disappeared into one of the other smaller rooms to retrieve it, along with Bo's leash lined with silver. JOE tried to be positive, but all he felt was a sense of dread as it continued to get colder and colder. He started to quake with fear. 

"Barry...hurry back, buddy!" The only response Joe got was a far-off laugh from the back of the suite. Joey tried to smile, but the corners of his thin lips returned to their downward state as an eerie sound began to seemingly seep out of the walls. It reminded Joe of the cries of the damned. Think the music that plays during the Boo's Haunted Mansion track in Mario Kart. 

Why hadn't Barack returned yet? Was he pulling a prank on his pal? _Yes_ , Joey reasoned. _That has to be it. Ol' Barold's just joking around! What a kidder, that guy_. These thoughts were interrupted when a figure poofed into the middle of the lounge area and greeted Joe with a "hi, how are ya". 

"Who the fu--wait...John F. Kennedy?" 

"That would most certainlatoodily be me, JoJo!" There is certainlatoodily tons of historical evidence that our 35th president talked like this. 

JoJo clutched his little heart. "What the hell are you doing here? How are you even alive?!" He paused. "Holy ass. You never were assassinated, were you? I knew it! Fuck you Rand Paul, I was right!"

"Uh," Crash Kennedy rubbed a ghostly hand on his neck. "That's probably the only thing that Rand Paul has ever been right about. I did, in factidoidle, die. I'm a ghost!" He smiled was of his trademark charismatic grins, in an attempt to allow the Veep to come to terms with his afterlifedom.

"Like...like the haunting kind? What did I do to you?" 

"No, Bidey-man. I'm more of a...guardian angel. And, I'm not here for you. I'm here for your buddy!" 

"Barack? But, wh--" before Joe could finish, the aforementioned man emerged from his place in the suite with a cream colored chiffon infinity scarf and leash in hand, Bo hot on his heels. Naturally, when he was greeted with the image of his closest friend and the presumed dead form of John F. Kennedy, he had no choice but to faint, narrowly missing landing on his pooch.

Ghost!JFK put his hands on his hips as he observed his unconscious charge. "Well, that could've gone better, don't you think, my main squeeze?" 

Joe couldn't help but gulp. 

* * *

“With more _feeling_ , Cuba!”

Cuba gave Zach a glare of death, but it was hard to take seriously as Cuba was currently dolled up in a costume of Zach’s own devising that can only be described as whimsical goth emo fairy chic. In the vein of the practice of good old William Shakespeare’s days, all the female roles were filled by males--and lucky Cuba had landed the role of Cobweb. This was despite the fact he had never actually auditioned and, frankly, had protested being involved in the production whatsoever.

“The love of your life is leaving you to find his lost wife,” explained Zach, “you were just forced to watch your mistress Titania be slaughtered in front of you, and the kingdom of Athens is under a reign of political unrest brought on by the revolting of once docile lovers. At least _frown_ a bit.”

“Peter, my love,” Cuba repeated, only this time in a tone slightly higher and only slightly less sarcastic. “The Night is fading with the Sun’s return/and you flee from the coming light of day/and yet for you my poor heart still will yearn/pray tell, wherefore my side you go and stray.” Cuba made a sound of disgust. “Is this shit for real?” he muttered

The fact that this author had to look up how to write in iambic pentameter to make a very laughable attempt at it aside, Ludacris, opposite the stage from him, mimed intense mortal pain.

“Oh, Cobweb, my beloved, my angel,” Ludacris wept, falling to his knees in misery. “My--”

“I doth represent _Wall_ ,” Chris Pine announced proudly, suddenly appearing from stage left in a burst of glitter. The spotlight switched to him abruptly. “And I--”

“Cut!” Zach yelled, sighing heavily. He took a swig of director’s vodka from his director’s shot glass. “Chris, sweetie, your scene was earlier,” he explained calmly, as the lights were raised on the stage and Cuba stormed off angrily. “You can’t--”

George Blagden, dressed in full (and badly mis-sized) Hermia regalia, ran onstage excitedly. “Come, Lysander!” he exclaimed, and a toga-ed Aaron Tveit appeared from stage right. “The rebellion has begun! Death to King Theseus! Death to--!”

“That’s not--” Zach threw his director’s clipboard to the ground in a directorly manner. “Who gave you that _costume_?” he exclaimed helplessly.

George broke character with a big smile. “Isn’t it great? Ludacris found it!” He twirled to show it off in its full glory. Ludacris, who was sitting in the audience, gave George a proud thumbs-up.

George’s get-up looked more like sexy lingerie that a stripper from B.C. Greece would wear--very _Rocky Horror Does Shakespeare_ \--than an actual costume. The skirt, already made out of cheap and practically see-through fabric, barely reached the top of George’s thighs. The top, meanwhile, was cut in a very, very low v-neck. It was horrific yet intriguing; beautiful yet sublime.

It was perfect.

(It had also been on the clearance rack at Sochi’s hottest lingerie store, _Vladimir’s Secret_ , when Ludacris went costume shopping earlier that day.)

“It’s _perfect_ ,” breathed Zach, stunned.

“Isn’t it just?” Ludacris chuckled fondly. “I felt the show could use a little sex appeal, if we’re going to lure gays here for Macklemore.” Ludacris didn’t mention that it was also the only kind of costume he could afford on their extremely miniscule budget for _Cobweb_ without completely bankrupting them. It seems that some #theaterproblems are true everywhere.

“Did you find the blond there too?” Zach asked happily, pointing at Aaron Tveit.

Aaron waved at Zach. “Oh, no. I’m with George,” he explained. “He told me you still needed a Lysander, and I’ve literally been on Broadway, so.”

Zach wiped a tear from his eye. This play--this _masterpiece_ \-- was going to make theater history. He could almost taste the movie rights, the cinema adaptations of his life-story,the high school students being forced to write essays on his work for decades to come. This was his ticket to fame.

“What about me?” Chris Pine said, frowning. He waved his arms comically in his ridiculous wall costume. He was still wearing the sunglasses.

“You’ll improve, sweetie,” Zach said sweetly. “Now, from the top!” he shouted. “Let’s start with Ben’s line, ‘ _And here’s a big butternut tree!_ ’. Go!”

* * *

Jack Falahee marched around the outside of the FreshBI’s home base shortly after Viola paid his bail, waving a giant sign that said _GUY FIERI WAS RIGHT_ and chanting “Legalize ass-eating!”

* * *

Matt Damon was enjoying some afternoon tea, relishing not being stranded in space like he seemed to be doing a lot these days, as he watched the snow fall gently outside his window. It was truly a breathtaking morning in Sochi; he just wished that his BFFALPFLABT (Best Friend Forever And Life Partner For Life And Beyond That) Ben Affleck could be there to share in it with him. He wondered how Benny was doing--they hadn't spoken since Ben dropped him off at the airport for his Sochi flight a week or so ago. Jeez, he missed his BFFALPFLABT.

There was a knock on the door of his spacious winter home.  _Who could that be?_ Matt wondered. He set down his tea and went to greet his mystery visitor.

He opened the door and, to his surprise, Ben Affleck stood on his front porch!

"Matt, they legalized it," Ben panted, holding onto the doorframe for support. "They legalized gay marriage in the U.S."

Matt gasped. "You mean--?"

Ben took Matt's hand in his own. "I left Jennifer the second I heard and headed straight (lol) here." He dropped to one knee. "Matt, my BFFALPFLABT, my soul mate, my love of my life............." He pulled a ring out of his pocket. "....Will you be my co-star in the movie of the rest of our lives together?"

"Oh, Ben! Yes!" Matt cried, hugging his soul mate. "That's the best movie pitch I've heard in my entire life!"

* * *

“You know, I’m getting a little sick of this place,” Tobey admitted, stirring the olive around his martini glass and looking around miserably at Club G!ay’s ga(ud)y decor. In the early afternoon sunlight visible through the windows, the flashing neon overhead lights and male strippers trying their best to recreate _Magic Mike_ on the stage in the back seemed somewhat out of place. Tobey took a sip of his drink and scowled. “They can’t mix drinks for shit.” The inherent homosexual theme of the establishment also reminded him unpleasantly of certain...latent feelings he held.

Mark smiled at him apologetically. He hadn’t touched his own drink. “It’s the only good meeting place in Sochi,” he explained, “everywhere else is too crowded.”

“That’s because everywhere else can make a good drink.” Tobey stabbed the olive viciously with the plastic stirrer, ignoring Mark’s knowing gaze.

“Tobey, please,” Mark spoke soothingly. Tobey finally met his eye. “I know your feelings for Leo are vastly deeper than mine, but that doesn’t mean you have to be alone in this. I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak too.” He thought back to that wonderful--and single--night he spent with Matt Bomer, and then willed it away. His own emotional baggage wasn’t important now. “You can talk to me about it any time.”

Tobey blinked tears out of his eyes and gave Mark a watery smile. “You’re one hell of a guy, Ruffalo,” he said. “Well, I supposed it all began in the summer of 1978, when--”

The _Spider-Man_ star was cut short as the doors of Club G!ay suddenly blew open in an ethereal gust of wind. Kate Winslet strutted into the club in all her glory, wide-brimmed sunhat perched carelessly atop her head. She looked around, unimpressed, before spotting Mark and Tobey and looking even more unimpressed. Mark waved her over.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them, nodding her thanks at Mark as he rose and pulled out a chair at their table for her. She took a seat, and folded her hands on the table in front of her. She snapped her fingers and a waiter rushed over. “Whiskey,” she told him, and he rushed off again.

Once she’d gotten her drink, she regarded her companions. “Right, let’s cut to the chase,” Kate said. “Where is he?”

As if on cue in a movie, Leonardo strolled in through the club’s doors, looking extremely chipper in a straw boater and blue and white pinstriped suit. (He had clearly raided the _Great Gatsby_ set again.) He took in his surroundings, breathing deeply. He looked far too happy to be in a den of iniquity like Club G!ay. Catching sight of Tobey, he waved excitedly with a glazed look in his eyes and rushed to his side to shake his hand. “Nick, old sport!” A flicker of confusion passed his face at the sight of Kate, but then it was gone. “And you brought Jordan too!” He wrung her hand too. He still ignored Mark.

Kate scrutinized him for a few moments. Then she stuck out her empty glass. " _Jay_ , be a dear and get me some more, um, moonshine, won't you?" she asked. Leo took it, beaming, glazed look still in his eyes.

"Of course, Ms. Baker," he said, accepting the cup like the good host he believed himself to be and merrily making his way to the bar. As soon as his back was turned, Kate pulled a bottle of vodka out of her handbag and downed it.

"The drinks here are shit," she griped, all faux sweetness gone from her voice.

"Thank you!" said Tobey enthusiastically. Both his companions ignored him.

After her second mini bottle of vodka, Kate shook her head. "His condition is worse than I expected.”

“You haven’t even talked to him for a full minute yet, how can you _tell_?” Mark said.

She shook her head again. “Don’t need a full minute. Even when he thought he was Jack Dawson, he at least slipped out of character every once and a while. But this...." She turned around to look at the bar, and Mark and Tobey followed her gaze. Leo was currently attempting to bring the bartender in on his bootlegging ring, despite the fact that Leo wasn't _actually_ a bootlegger, Prohibition ended quite a few decades ago, and this wasn't even America. Also, the bartender clearly thought that bootlegging was some sort of gay sex euphemism and was showing _way_ more interest in it (and Leo) than the topic warranted. Kate cast her eyes downwards. "I don't see a glimpse of Leonardo DiCaprio in there."

"What does that mean?" Tobey demanded, voice shrill. "He's still _Leo_ , he's our _friend_ , he's in there somewhere!"

"How did you snap him out of it last time?" Mark asked, in all his fatherly calmness.

“We lured him into reenacting the end of the movie in a swimming pool filled with ice cubes,” Kate said. “I had to lie on that damn door until Leo finally passed out, and when we pulled him out and performed some, ah, _minor_ CPR, he was back to normal. Well,” She turned pink. “Mostly back to normal. He--ah--was pretty infatuated with me still for a while afterwards.” She glanced at Leo again; the bartender was now fondling Leo’s tie while Leo obliviously carried on, inviting the man to his next non-existent party at his non-existent mansion. “It was bad, but...it wasn’t _this_ bad. This is an entirely new playing field. I don’t know if the same method will work again.”

“Method?” Tobey said, blinking. “As in, we’re going to have to hook Leo up with my cousin and then _shoot him_?” Tobey’s eyes filled with a haunted pain. He _really_ didn’t want to be responsible for Leo banging Lizzie and possibly having his feelings for her stick around even after he was cured. _If_ he was cured. Also, there was the whole possibility of death by gunshot wound, yada yada. But the more important thing here was that Leo would be sleeping with a member of the Maguire family who wasn’t Tobey, which wasn’t fair. “We might kill him!” Or he might sleep with Lizzie and not Tobey.

“Yes,” agreed Mark, with the heavy sigh of a man who had just been going through a massive internal struggle. Or the sigh of a man who realized existence was pointless and life was meaningless, but decided to go on anyway because at least we have stuff like mozzarella sticks. The second one isn’t applicable here though. “But it’s the only way.”

Kate reached out and took both their hands, squeezing them supportively and smiling sympathetically. “I’m going to be with you every step of the way,” she assured them. Tobey struggled not to cry.

The somber moment was broken by Leo, who cheerfully placed another glass of whiskey in front of Kate. “That fellow at the bar sure was friendly!” he said. “He told me he wanted to--” Leo’s next sentence was so graphic that Mark clutched his metaphorical pearls and it had to be edited out to fit the _M_ rating of this fic, “--and doesn’t that sound terribly unsanitary!” He laughed. Kate looked like she’d just stared into the Void.

“Say, Jay,” Tobey said, weakly. “How’s about I introduce you to Liz--cousin Daisy now?”

"Ah, shit," interrupted Mark, looking at his watch. "Better make that tonight, gang. I've got a team to support."

* * *

 

“Good morning good morning good morning!” Ryan Seacrest greeted the crowd, even though it was the evening. Finally, fucking _finally_ , it was time for an actual Olympic event. No sex tapes, no deaths, no anything would stop the couple’s skiing. Ryan was in his element and ready to host this shit.

Not everyone was in their element, though.

Amandla hopped for the fifteenth time during the Olympic Games. She really, really, REALLY hated the seats that her father had gotten for them to watch the figure skating. It wasn't that she wasn't happy about just being there, and to be completely honest, she was confused as to how he had managed to get seats to close to the rink without her finding out. One day, she had just arrived from another tiring day of school, and there her dad was, holding two plane tickets to Sochi. She remembered screaming and leaping into his arms. She had been ecstatic. 

Now, not so much.

There was some extremely tall asshole in the seat right in front of them. Not only was he obnoxiously tall, but he also kept talking very loudly to his friends to his side. She had been tempted to dump her bag of Olympic popcorn on his head, but she thought against it, for her dad was right there, and even with the douche sitting, she would still have to reach up pretty high to properly commit such dumping. 

"Sweetie," her dad, Orlando Jones said, an amused grin on his face. "What are you doing?"

Amandla huffed and crossed her arms, the picture of petulance. "The guy in front of me; I can't see a single thing because of him!" She whispered a little too loudly, somewhat on purpose in hopes that the guy would catch a hint. 

Unfortunately, he did not, or maybe he had heard and just wanted to keep being an asshole. 

Orlando squinted. "I'll see what I can do." He tapped a finger on the man's shoulder, and when he turned around, said, "Sir, would you mind slouching down a little bit? My daughter can't see the skaters." 

The guy side eyed both of them, and continued to be a fuckboy instead of simply following orders. Orlando's jaw set, he tossed a quick look to Amandla, and stood up. 

"Honey, get up on my shoulders." She immediately obeyed, and climbed up on the bleachers, hooked her leg through her dad's awaiting arm, and hoisted herself up, wrapping her arms around his neck. He reached down and grabbed the forgotten bag of popcorn, and passed it to her. Amandla beamed. 

"Really, dad?" The only answer she got was a wink, so she accepted the bag, and dumped it on jerkass' head with glee. 

* * *

“You ready?” Chris Evans said, squeezing Sebastian’s hand. They were perched at the top of Mount Sochi in the Olympic Stadium, surveying the slope they were about to go down. Across the way, they could just make out Emma Stone and Scarlett Johansson waving at them from their own slope. Chris and Sebastian waved back.

“They’re so sweet,” Sebastian said, fondly.

(“We’re going to fucking crush them,” Emma said to Scarlett, not once breaking eye contact with their competition as she waved sweetly.)

“They are,” Chris agreed. He readjusted the ski straps on his feet. Emma and Scarlett would head down their slope first, and when they were done, it was the moment of truth for him and Sebastian.

Sebastian peered over the edge of the slope. “Creepy,” he said, chuckling nervously, “Looks a bit like where we filmed my death scene for _Cap 1_.” A cold breeze of foreshadowing swept the air, and Sebastian shivered. “Hey, that reminds me,” Sebastian continued, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah?” Chris said, smiling. He reached out and lifted Sebastian’s ski mask. “Kiss for good luck first?”

Sebastian agreed, as that was a pretty fair point. But he turned serious again. “So, like, what are your thoughts on threesomes with Anth--”

To his surprise, "Same Love" began to play ominously in the distance and Sebastian trailed off because, like, what the fuck? The two men looked around; the audience seemed not to have noticed anything. “What is--?”

There was a puff of rainbow smoke, and Macklemore in all his white rapper glory was suddenly standing in front of them. He let out an evil laugh. “Who’s ready to further the gay agenda?” he boomed, whipping out his self-published Gay Bible.

“Macklemore!” Chris gasped, stepping in front of Sebastian to shield him. Sebastian was still really confused. This was just like that time he and Richard Armitage-- “Chris Pine warned me you’d be coming!”

“Looks like your little Chris club came in handy for something,” Macklemore laughed. At Chris’s shocked expression, he continued, “Yes, that’s right, I know about the Chris club. I know about a lot of things. I’ve had my feelers out for a while for you, Mr. Evans.”

“Ew, God, I hate when people say feelers,” Sebastian shuddered.

“My metaphorical feelers are the least of your problem,” Macklemore said. He snapped his fingers, and Perez Hilton, John Green, and Tyler Oakley puffed behind him. “ _Marry them, boys_!” Macklemore snapped his fingers again and disappeared, leaving his henchmen behind to do his dirty work.

What happened next was a blur. Tyler Oakley lunged for Chris; Perez Hilton for Sebastian, who was wondering why marrying Chris could possibly be a bad thing; Ryan Seacrest fired the cannon indicating that it was their turn on the slope, and really, how the audience didn’t see this shit going down was a mystery. Chris punched Tyler in the face and grabbed Sebastian out of Perez’s way, shouting, “Down the slope is the only way out of this!” as he knocked Perez out of commission too. Somehow Chris’s shirt fell off during the fight idk let me sexualize the male celebrities I want.

“What is going on?!” Sebastian shouted back, but neither of them were counting on John Green. He lunged forward with his own bible and cross to succeed where his fellows had not just as Chris and Sebastian began to head down the mountain. He leapt at them, shouting “DO YOU TAKE THIS MAN TO BE YOUR LAWFULLY WEDDED SPOUSE”, but just missed Chris--but not Sebastian. Still extremely confused, Sebastian, knocked off his balance by the YA author, tumbled off his skis--and the mountain, perfectly reenacting his death scene in _Cap 1._

“ _No_!” Chris shouted, reaching for his co-star turned teammate turned BF, but it was too late. Sebastian’s screams faded as he disappeared into the unforgiving snow of Mount Sochi and there was nothing Chris could do but clumsily ski down the mountain and watch.

Macklemore’s three henchman disappeared in another puff of smoke. “Well,” boomed Ryan Seacrest over the loudspeaker as Coach Ruffalo sprinted down to the bottom of the slope where Chris was sobbing (shirtless), “I have no clue what the fuck that was about, folks.”

* * *

Meanwhile, our heroes that probably should’ve been there to save the day were a bit preoccupied.

After ten hours of rehearsal, _Cobweb_ had reached its opening night, which also happened to be the very same day that practices began. The League and Co. had worked tirelessly on it; the sets were perfected, the costumes picked out, the lines for all thirteen acts learned. For a play that had been completed, learned, and advertised day of, there was a surprisingly massive turnout. As Zach had practically wept to Chris, even Bill Clinton was there.

It had a pretty killer playbill too.

“Okay, men and Jitterbug #2,” Zach began, regarding the group of gathered actors with a solemn air. (Much to the chagrin of Cuba, Zach had tried to make his “please silence your cell phones” speech funny and #relatable to the subject matter of the play at hand, and after laughing at his joke about ancient Greeks not having cell phones over the mic system for an inappropriate length of time, decided they all needed a pep talk). Cuba, Terrence, Ben, Ludacris, Mike, Eddie, Antonio, Chris, George, Aaron, James, and Jitterbug #2 all stared back equally solemnly in full costume and make-up. “After weeks of rehearsals--” it had only been a day, “--we’ve finally reached this moment. I want you all to take a deep breath.”

The cast complied. James did this annoying thing where he “ _shhhh_ ’d” the air out inside of just breathing through his nose like a fucking normal person. Everyone eye-emoji’d him. “Now,” continued Zach. “I want everyone to grab each other’s hand in a circle. We’re going to _pass_ the _squeeze_.”

“Pass the squeeze?” said Cuba, narrowing his eyes and somehow appearing judging despite the elaborate spider-web design painted across a majority of his face. “Is that some weird gay sex move?”

“What-- _no_. It’s not--”

“No, no, he’s right,” nodded George sagely. “That is most definitely a gay sex move.” Aaron gave him a surprised and oddly intrigued look. George privately vowed to show it to him if the opportunity ever presented itself.

Zach snapped his fingers, and Chris rushed to his side to massage his boyfriend’s temples soothingly for him. “It’s a good luck ritual, can we just--”

“Five minutes to call!” shouted one of the only two stagehands that actually signed up.

“Jesus,” said Zach, less as a curse and more as a plea to higher powers. “Just--remember that my entire future career as a playwright lies on your shoulders and be perfect, got it?”

Everyone nodded.

“Then let’s go and give ‘em a show they’ll never forget.”

“And capture Macklemore,” added Terrence.

“Uh, right,” Zach agreed distractedly, flipping through his director’s script. “That’s an important goal too. I guess.”

* * *

"Y'all Ready For This", aka the quintessential theme tune of the NBA (second to only the _Space Jam_ theme) chimed enthusiastically as the spectators settled into their seats, a mere five minutes before the basketball game was set to begin. Team We Genie passed the ball to each other in their diamond formation, amazing their audience with an occasional trick. Their opposing team, the MonStars, had yet to show, causing the present players to sweat. 

"Why aren't they here yet?” wondered Lebron, who was receiving several menacing glares from people in the stands, notably, Dwayne Wade. 

"Well," spoke Shaq. "If they don't show, we win by default! That's good, right?" 

Captain Jordan shook his bald head. "So, what, we'll be known as the guys who could only defeat They Who Nearly Ended Me because they forfeited? No way, men." He punched his fist into his palm. "We can do this, I feel it in my 12,000 sponsorship deals. They just need to actually show up." 

Bugs looked up at his pal with admiration. "Mike's right, we beat them once and we can beat them again! Say, maybe after our win, we can go to Chekov's Cheesecakes to celebrate!" The teammates all agreed to this in earnest, mood elevated due to the thought of sinking their teeth into the communist creaminess of the cheesecake. Their fun was spoiled when it suddenly became extremely quiet in the court. 

Through the wide double doors, three large, multicolored monsters marched, pausing only to scare one of the basketball fans shitless with a single glance. They laughed as grown men began to cry, and the faint of heart died in terror. They stopped in the center of the court, right across from Team We Genie. The music had become even louder, as the few people who weren't dead began to cheer in the stands, holding up signs and pom-poms. 

Michael swallowed. "So...where's your fourth player?" He avoided staring the big green one in the eye. 

" _I'm right here, asshole_ ," called a vaguely obnoxious voice from behind the creatures. One of them stepped aside to reveal.....................................

"Daffy Duck?!" The three humans of Team We Genie announcer incredulously. Bugs simply rolled his eyes.

"Yes, it is I, the great, the sensual, the immortal Daffy Duck." The black duck sashayed front and center. "You really thought these fools could whip themselves into shape without me? Fat chance, no0bs." He crossed his feathered arms. "Oh, and hello, Bugs." 

"Hey Dick--I mean...Daffy." Bugs greeted offhandedly. Daffodil's eyes narrowed. 

"Where's your _girlfriend_ , eh, Bugsy?" This caused Bugs to scoff, before pointing court side where his gf of three months, Lola Bunny, sat. Daffy smirked. "Hey Boyfriend Stealer--I mean...Lola." 

The toon rabbit's ears drooped. "Hey, don't talk to her like that! I left you because you were becoming a big, feathered, jerk! Lola just so happened to be my first match on tinder, got it?!" After the filming of Space Jam, Bugs and Daffy had started a tentative relationship. Their chemistry had been so clear, the sexual tension between the two animals was palpable. They got engaged during post-production of _Looney Toons: Back in Action_ , and planned on making Brendan Fraser their Best Man. However, this all came to a sudden halt when Daffy started to abuse crack marijuana. Bugs broke off the engagement after he caught Daffy selling their shared house for drug money. 

"Whatever, let’s just do this already, shall we?" The bird cracked his neck and growled. Or as much as a duck can growl. 

[Each member of both teams took turns staring into each other's beady eyes](https://youtu.be/6ZU5BsCY88M?t=6s), trying to sike their opponent out. However, when the referee blew his whistle, they were all prepared to die on that basketball court. Ball truly is life. 

* * *

“But, Peter!” cried Cobwe--er, Cuba. He knelt at Ludacris’s feet, hanging pitifully onto the hem of his pants. “You can’t _cross_ the _tradewinds_!”

“So far so good,” whispered Zach to himself as he watched his masterpiece unfold from stage right. Up next was the dance sequence; he hoped Cuba didn’t screw this up like he had at practice.

Terrence leaned up against the wall next to him, trying to peek out around the curtain. “Any sign of Macklemore?” he whispered. Zach slapped his hand and Terrence recoiled.

“Hey, asshole, they’re gonna see you,” Zach hissed. “And no.”

Terrence hummed thoughtfully. “If this plan of yours doesn’t work and we wasted all this time for nothing, Zach…” he warned. “Macklemore could’ve been flying all over Sochi all day and we wouldn’t even know because we’ve been _here_ practicing for your _play_ \--“

“Remember when you had a life and stopped making bitchy comments about mine?” Zach said, as James as Titania screamed “SEXUAL POWER!” onstage.

Ben sidled up to Zach and the speechless Terrence, looking uncomfortable in his tight leather Helena jumpsuit. (Ludacris evidently only had enough time and money to buy costumes on sale at lingerie and S&M stores). He was holding the broken radar in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. “Guys,” he whispered, “I think I’ve almost got it fixed.” Ben had been working on the radar intermittently with the _Cobweb_ practices since that morning, attempting to install a better hard drive so it wouldn’t overheat again from whatever that interference was the next time it was turned on, and also to withstand a higher external power source.

“Well fuck my gay ass, Ben, are you here to jerk off over electronics or _act_?” Zach snapped. He swatted both men away. “Seriously, wait backstage until your _goddamn cues_.”

“But the radar--” Ben protested.

With a yell of “Peter Quince, you devil!” Cuba collapsed to the stage and the curtains closed. The audience erupted into applause and cheers. Zach began to weep.

“My dream is almost actualized,” he said through his tears. Ben and Terrence looked at each other like they were on _The Office_.

* * *

The Famous Hot Blond Chris Club’s meeting was going a little awkwardly, as half its members hadn’t actually showed up to it that day. Something about Chris Pine being in a play and Chris Evans experiencing a horrible and debilitating tragedy, yada yada yada. Chris Hemsworth wasn’t interested in their excuses.

“Our first order of business,” Hemsworth boomed, banging his gavel on his desk, “is to address the recent controversy over the admittance of Mr. Pratt to our ranks. Is there anyone who would like to vouch for Mr. Pratt’s continued membership?”

Chris Pratt, the only other person in the room, raised his hand. “Uh, I’d like to vouch for myself,” he said.

“Noted,” Hemsworth said, as he did so. “Well, one out of one. That’s settled.”

A pause as pregnant as Louis Tomlinson ensued. Hemsworth started doodling Thorki fanart on his meeting minutes.

“Soooooo…” said Chris Pratt, coughing awkwardly. “Wanna prank call someone?”

* * *

So, as it turned out, sex clubs had a lot of great, sleazy back rooms that served as convenient spots for, you know, sex. They weren’t called sex clubs for nothing. The official old abandoned (title gained through years of being old and abandoned) Sochi ex-sex club was no different, and as it turned out, the ex-sex rooms of the ex-sex club made great dressing rooms. Once you shoved aside the beds with suspicious stains permanently encrusted in them, that is. Not that the League had. Zach had forced them to set up shop with the ex-sex club ex-sex room ex-sex beds still sitting in all their fetid glory in what was now their dressing rooms.

Ben at least found a use for the ex-sex bed in his dressing room. He perched on its edge as he worked through the tangled wires of his now dismantled Homosexual Activity Tracking Radar, tongue between his teeth. “Just need to boost the power source a bit more,” he mumbled, prodding at the radar’s open panel with his screwdriver. (Unbeknownst to most people, Ben majored in engineering in college, an extremely real and accurate fact that you definitely don’t have to cross-reference anywhere else.)

He glanced thoughtfully at the power cord running under his dressing room door and out to the hallway, where he knew it was connected to the lights and rented sound board; they had to improvise without the budget for high-quality systems. The power cord was plugged into a high-powered generator outside that Ludacris had stolen from Hotel Rwanda for the occasion. A high-powered generator that would provide just enough of a boost for Ben to get a clear reading on the radar before it shorted out again if he could _just_ run a line between the two.

Dialogue crackled over the mic system--some sad lament by Cuba with a falsetto--and from what Ben could tell, he wouldn’t be needed onstage opposite Terrence for at least another act. He had time. Through a complex series of technological maneuvers the author will not go into detail about, as she is not an engineering major like Mr. Stiller (a fact that is totally real), Ben managed to MacGyver a working extended power booster out of a jump cable he stole from the Mackle No More League’s van earlier that night for the very occasion by attaching one end to the generator and one end to the wires in the radar. It was pretty high-tech. Just imagine a scene like in all those spy movies where the guy hacks into the computer database only replace Tom Cruise with Ben Stiller and imagine a completely different scenario.

 _The Moment of Truth_ , Ben thought, and he turned on the radar. Lines began intersecting and forming out a grid over a map of Sochi; it was all pretty 80’s. Ben watched anxiously as tiny red pinpricks began appearing all over the radar until eventually the entire screen was a mass of glowing scarlet. The same reading as before, Ben realized miserably. The lights in his room flickered a bit.

Ben thought back to Terrence’s earlier comment about residual energy; at the time, he had dismissed it, but with readings like this, anything was possible. He just needed the radar to hold out for a few more seconds until it completed the scan.

The red dots all seemed to be converging around something; when he zoomed out, the area only spread as far as Sochi and the edges were curved, like a circle. He clamped the cable down deeper into the wires for just a little more power, and the red dots began to dim; the point in the middle pulsated harder. Ben let out a triumphant cry. It _wasn’t_ residual energy--it was a surges being let out from a massive power source. A massive power source somewhere just near the city limits. Not that that was a good thing. It was actually a very bad thing. Just a few more seconds and the radar would tell him the exact type of source--

The generator finally gave out, and the lights and Ben’s radar went dark. People inside the theater screamed. In the distance, Zach let out an anguished wail of pain. Ben swore. He was so _close_. Then, impossibly--there was a shuffling sound behind him.

Ben’s blood turned cold. Someone was in the room with him.

Was it a stagehand that Zach sent to yell at him? Was it Zach himself? How did they even get in so fast without him noticing? “Hello?” he called into the void, heart pounding. The shuffling noise continued, a fraction closer. [In the dimness, Ben’s face was the color of old milk](http://www.amazon.com/The-House-Steeple-Jane-Hollingsworth/dp/1590889975). Then, he remembered: the spare flashlight he kept in his League knapsack! It was on the BDSM torture table-turned-vanity in the corner of the room. He groped blindly to it, praying that whoever his mystery roommate was could not see him. He reached the table, and after fumbling around in the bag, flicked the flashlight on. It flickered, and Ben swore again. He had forgotten to put in new batteries this morning, and a quick pat-down of the bag’s front pockets told him that he didn't bring any spare ones. Terrence was always reminding him to. He wished he had listened. He wish he had listened to a lot of the things Terrence told him, now that his future suddenly wasn't certain.

The room was pitch black now. "Hello?" he said again, licking his lips nervously. He hit the flashlight against his hand, hoping the jostling would at least provide a dim beam, but to no avail. A rustling sound now.

" _Who's there_?"

"When I was in the third grade," a voice suddenly whispered in Ben's ear, "I thought I was gay."

Ben’s flashlight flickered back on, illuminating the intruder. He screamed.

When the generator started back up again a few seconds later and light flooded the ex-sex club, the radar lay shattered on the floor. There was no one in the room.

* * *

It was the last quarter of the game, with a mere two minutes left. Team We Genie 98, MonStars 107. Our heroes were doomed. 

Captain Jordan called for his last available time out. "Come on guys, we got this! What the hell happened? Lebron, you were supposed to have my back!" 

"I did have your back, fuckface, you were still in the wrong place!" He wiped the sweat off of his forehead and kneeled. He wondered to himself if he would have been better off doing another sport, like parasailing. 

"Well, maybe if you didn't hog the ball so damn much--" 

"Those sound like fighting words, cap! I'm not afraid to end you right here, right now!" 

"Boys!" Intervened the hare. "No. More. Fighting. I think I know what to do to get us the extra eleven points we need." 

"Like what?" Questioned Shaq. "Suck the ref's dick? Cause I've tried that before and it didn't work." 

"No, of course--wait what? Never mind. Just leave it to me." The men nodded and broke for the game. 

As soon as the purple monster started dribbling, Bugs got to work. He knew what the MonStars' one weakness was. "Oh, Daffy!" Bugs batted his eyelashes at the twink duck. "Over here, Big Bill! ;)" 

Daf's tongue immediately rolled out of his bill onto the floor, which is rly unsanitary but anyways. He fanned himself with a wing, and sauntered over to his ex. "Have you finally seen the error of your ways, boo? Do you want to reunite?" Bugs gazed at the duck with hooded eyes and nodded. "Then let's make like...teehee....rabbits." They made out. Right there in the middle of the court. The two animated animals. I want to die. 

Shaquille took this time to make four half court shots just in the nick of time as the timer ran down to 0. Team We Genie was victorious. 

Bugs disconnected his lips from Daffy's. "Ya know...I only did that to win the game but...I actually still really like you...and with enough time, I think I could grow to love you again." 

"Same, tbh," was Daffy's reply. 

The two embraced as Lola stormed out in anger, the remaining MonStars were booed to death, and Team We Genie rejoiced. 

* * *

“What the fuck just happened?” Zach snarled at a terrified looking stagehand after storming backstage. The show had gone on despite the lack of power--quick improvisation on Cuba and Ludacris’s part worked it into the show as fairy’s magic--but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to behead someone if need be. The power had come back, at any rate.

“Power outage, sir,” she said nervously. She held up the end of a jump cable. “I found this attached to the generator so I unclamped it and it came back.”

Zach nodded slowly. He patted the top of her head. “You’re a good kid.” He took the cable from the stagehand and examined it. “Well, fuck my gay ass,” he said slowly, “someone’s siphoning our goddamn power.” He shot down the hallway to follow the cable (it was pretty long, for narrative reasons) and paused in front of Ben’s door. The cable went under it. Zach felt his heart break a little. “Ben?” he said sweetly, rapping on the door. “Is there a reason you’re actively trying to individually dismantle and burn every single one of my hopes and dreams?”

There was no response. Zach knocked again. “Ben, seriously, get your ass out here so I can kill you and then bring you back to life for your final scene,” he called.

Terrence wandered over, pulling off pieces of last act’s costume. “Hey, Zach, you missed my solo!” he exclaimed. Then he frowned. “What’s up with Ben?”

“I don’t know,” Zach said. He rolled his eyes. “I’m coming in, Ben! Make sure you’re not nude!” He opened the door.

The room was empty.

“Ben?” Zach said, frowning. Had he gone to the bathroom?

And then Terrence let out a strangled gasp. Zach followed his gaze. Lying on the floor next to Ben’s broken radar was a single, rank, fur coat, a price tag with “$0.99” in block letters on it attached to the collar. “It’s his calling card!” Terrence wailed. “He took Ben! Macklemore took Ben!”

“My plan _worked_ ,” Zach gasped. He looked to the sky. “Thank you for proving Terrence wrong,” he whispered to whatever deities lurked up there.

Terrence picked up the smelly coat to examine it, but before he could give it so much as a once-over, a small slip of paper tumbled out it. Scrawled across it in a poor imitation of Ben’s script was the simple phrase: _Peach Grove Warehouse_. Terrence narrowed his eyes. “Ben found him out with the radar,” he surmised, “so Macklemore took him before he could find out anything else. But Ben was smart!” he continued, excited, “He wrote it down for us!”

Zach made a skeptical noise. “Maybe.” He remembered the incident at Club G!ay and the planner they found at the opening ceremony that led them to it. He wasn’t quite ready to accept that this wasn’t a trap just yet. Especially because it was obviously a trap. “Terrence, you do realize this is obviously a trap right?” He pointed to the note. “Macklemore signed it as himself, and then crossed it out, and then wrote ‘lol’ under it. I mean, like...” Terrence pretended not to hear.

By now, Terrence and Zach had attracted the attention of the rest of the cast with all the excitement. Except, Zach noticed, not James.

“What’s wrong?” Cuba said, face barely discernable under all of his makeup.

“Ben’s gone! Kidnapped!” Terrence shouted. He waved the coat. “Macklemore!!!!!!!!!”

Everyone gasped. “We have to go after him!” Ludacris exclaimed. Cuba, Chris, Mike, and Eddie voiced their assent. Antonio looked a little apprehensive; he was really enjoying his furry costume and wasn’t quite ready to take it off.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Terrence said. He fished the van’s keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Cuba. “Start the car. We’ll be out there in ten seconds flat.” Cuba nodded and ran out.

“Five minutes to curtain!” called a stagehand. “Has anyone seen Mr. Franco?”

As the League began pulling coats on over their costumes, not even bothering to change first, Zach watched all of his aspirations metaphorically crumble around him. This was not what he wanted. This was not what he expected. Ben was kidnapped, James had blown them off, and now he was losing the rest of his cast. He was going to be the laughing stock of the entire I Have A (Finally) Requited Gay Crush On My Co-Star Club--and just after he’d finally joined their ranks!

“Zach!” Terrence shouted as the rest of the League and the _Shrek_ cast hustled out the door. He looked frantic, winter coat half-hanging off of his body and car keys already pulled out. “We need to go to the Peach Grove, now!” Zach probably should be worrying about him and Ben both right now but like, honestly. This shit was important.

“But,” he protested. The orchestra was already playing the score signaling the beginning of the final act. This was what would make or break his career as a playwright. He couldn’t just _walk out_ on a play he _directed_. “Can’t you guys just go without me?” he suggested weakly.

“ZACH!”

Zach took off his director’s hat and stared at it sadly. He placed it on his director’s chair on top of his lone copy of the _Cobweb_ script. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, stifling a sob. He took a deep breath and prepared to turn on his headset--he would have to tell the audience to go home, that the play was cancelled, that they would never find out what happened to the doomed pair of lovers Cobweb and Peter. He supposed it was too late to simply fling himself off the balcony. Well…

“Director Quinto! Wait!” cried Aaron, he and George skidding to a halt in front of them; he and George had been waiting on stage left for the act to begin, but when none of their castmates joined them, they knew something had to be up. “Don’t cancel the show!”

“How can I not?” Zach said miserably. “The entire cast is ditching me--my _dream_ \--because Ben went and got his stupid ass kidnapped.” He shrugged. “Okay, granted, that is a valid reason, but.” He placed a hand on one each of Aaron and George’s shoulders. “Sometimes…sometimes the show doesn’t go on, kids.”

“No!” said George, shaking off Zach. “It _always_ does, and nothing is different this time! Aaron and I are going to make sure of it!”

Zach paused. “You mean--“

“We’re going to improv the fuck out of this,” Aaron exclaimed, grinning excitedly.

Zach burst into tears and drew them both in, clutching them to his chest. He kissed the tops of their heads. “I’m going to legally adopt you both when I get back,” he whispered. Team Oui Trés Homo gave a half-hearted struggle. Zach simply tightened his hold and began stroking their hair.

“ _ZACH!”_

“Good luck!” Zach said, as Terrence physically dragged him out the stage exit doors.

The orchestra’s music got louder--they’d be due onstage any second. George took a deep breath and adjusted his skirt. “Are you sure about this?” he said, biting his lip.

Aaron glanced at George’s (skimpy) toga and then down at the laces doing up his own. He ripped his open. George made a small noise. “After we overthrew the bourgeoisie and beheaded King Theseus in act seventeen, the Athens economy probably went shambles, not to mention that the moral code was completely thrown to the wind.” Aaron ripped his toga open enough to expose his chest and then ripped about a foot off the skirt part. “Clearly Lysander and Hermia are forced to open a strip club to pay the bills. Because, you know, like Ludacris said. Sex appeal.” He threw the scraps of fabric aside, ignoring the fact that Zach had a deposit on those costumes, and smiled at George. “Ready to show some skin?”

“I am incredibly attracted to you right now,” George blurted out.

Aaron looked thoughtful. “Do you want to make out after this?”

“ _Do_ I,” George enthused.

They hurried onstage. They didn’t notice the person watching them from the shadows.

* * *

“Hello?” Christopher Nolan said into the receiver of his phone that had, until a few seconds ago, been ringing.

“Is your refrigerator running?” a voice asked on the other end.

Chris frowned and glanced at his refrigerator in the kitchen. It was indeed working well. “Uh… yes?”

“THEN YOU BETTER GO CATCH IT!” two voices giggled in unison at the other end.

They hung up, and Chris swore. He slammed the phone back onto the counter. “I can’t believe I fell for that _again_!” he cried.

Christopher Columbus (director not explorer), who was sitting at Christopher Nolan’s kitchen table, shook with rage. “That Hot Famous Blond Chris Club has made a mockery of the Famous Directors Chris Club for the last time!” he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. “We’ll show them! We’ll show them all!”

The phone rang again, and Chris Nolan answered it. He was silent as he listened, and then glanced at the ceiling, confused. “No, gullible isn’t written--YOU SONS OF BITCHES!”

* * *

So, on a scale from one to ten, this was probably a nine on the League’s most awkward road trips. (The ten was That Time--caps relevant and worthy--with Cuba’s grandmother, the hooker that looked remarkably like Cuba’s grandmother, and the eggplant that the League dubbed ominously _That Time_ \--caps still relevant and worthy.)

“I’m still confused as to why we didn’t just build a Macklemore tracking device in the first place,” Cuba pointed out the glaring plot hole, as he and Ludacris held on to each other for dear life in the back of the van--Terrence’s driving was slightly more erratic and fatal than usual. The _Shrek_ cast had long stopped trying to stay upright and were somewhat rolling around at Cubacris’s feet.

“Jesus fucking Chris, Cuba,” said Terrence, jerking the wheel sharply to the right out of the ex-sex club’s parking lot. “Everyone knows that Macklemore transcends mortal boundaries and can’t be tracked. It’d be like trying to hunt God.” He turned his anger on Chris Pine, who was cowering in the face of Terrence’s fury next to him with Zach. “Did you fucking route the GPS yet?”

The League had never seen Terrence lose his cool like this before. It was like watching a parent cry. Ludacris began to softly weep in the backseat. “Uh, well,” Chris stammered, “it’s not--not working, I think it must be communist airwaves interrupting the, um, signal--“

Coincidentally, almost as if the author needed a convenient plot device and this was it, the Mackle No More Van’s headlights just happened to illuminate a sign on the right that said _Peach Grove Warehouse 10 Miles Straight Ahead_ , and right below it, the advertisement, _Peach Grove Warehouse--the perfect spot for all your major antagonist hideout needs!_

“Well,” Terrence said, mildly impressed, “that was a convenient plot device.” He put the pedal to the metal, so to speak, and Ludacris and Cuba went flying back into Mike, Eddie, and Antonio. It was a little sad how used Cuba was getting to being crushed under piles of the bodies of his teammates. At least he hadn’t hit the portable stovetop, he told himself.

* * *

“Oh, Lysander,” wept George, “I just can’t believe Helena and Demetrius are truly lost to the indomitable slavery of capitalism!”

“Let no tear be shed,” Jitterbug #2 consoled George. (It was her one big line in the show and by God, she was going to say it whether the act material was changed or not.) As George-as-Hermia began to weep in the arms of Aaron-as-Lysander, imagine now a fake camera zoom in on the mostly enthralled audience.

“The worst are…pretty bad,” Bill mumbled to Hillary, who chuckled and swatted her HWWAFPOTUS (husband who was also the former president of the United States) good-naturedly.

“Cock!” cried Aaron, meanwhile.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” George screamed madly.

* * *

The backroads of Sochi were even more deserted than usual--the sudden upgrade of Club G!ay in central Sochi to a nightlife hotspot lending to even less traffic going down those routes--and combined with the heavy darkness the drive to the Peach Grove was even eerier than it should have been. The van sped past a sign that said _Beware of loose bears!_ and then, further down, another one with a crude cartoon of a writhing many-eyed tentacle nightmare with a simple _X-ing_ beneath it. The sign looked homemade. Ludacris gulped. “Who’s up for a fun car game?” he said, voice falsely high as Terrence steered the van onto a run-down and probably code-violating old bridge over an incredibly large and deadly canyon that looked _suspiciously_ like another plot device. He didn’t add “to ease the tension” aloud, but everyone inexplicably heard it anyway. “Zach, if you had to lick--“

One of the car-sized planks in front of them on the bridge snapped and fell into the all-consuming void below. Zach screamed and jumped into Chris’s arms in a move that was very _Scooby-Doo_. Terrence hit the brakes. Cuba went flying forward into the portable stovetop. A bottle of Mountain Dew, leftover from Cuba and Luda’s late-night Mario Kart excursions fell on the _Shrek_ cast. The van came to a halt just before it would’ve hit the gaping hole. “Now is that some good driving or what?” Terrence said smugly.

“Can we get the fuck off this bridge?” Chris begged, pale behind his Rays Ben’s™. He desperately needed to call Chris Evans back; he had forty missed called from the guy since that evening alone and was worried that something bad had happened.

“I’ll try to find a back route to the back route,” Terrence sighed, preparing to back up.

Suddenly, an engine roared behind them. The League had just enough time to turn in horror and watch as a red convertible slammed into the rear of the Mackle No More Van and sent it careening, passengers and all, over the side of the bridge.

* * *

 **Zachary Quinto** @ quintobean  
tfw ur van is currently hurtling headfirst into an endless abyss :/ lol I hope my play’s going well

* * *

Later that night, while half of Sochi partied it up at the _Cobweb_ premiere, Chris Evans sat alone at the back room bar at Club G!ay. He was knocking back whiskey shot after whiskey shot, sobbing. The FreshBI hadn’t found any trace of--of Sebastian when they were frantically called in. The rest of the night had been a blur; Coach Ruffalo comforting him as he sobbed, unable to hide his own tears; trying to get into contact with Chris Pine to see if the League could help them only for it to go to voicemail twenty times; and finally, drowning his sorrows in liquor while people boozed and had a great time around him. The FreshBI refused to allow any news sources to even publically announce the death due to the “highly classified” circumstances of it. He was, truly, all alone in his pain.

“Whoa, buddy,” said the bartender, a young teenage girl who probably wasn’t legally allowed to serve alcohol subbing in for the usual bartender, “I think you’ve had one too many cold ones.”

Chris Evans didn't respond, only sob and collapse even further into himself. The bartender reached down to pat his shoulder uncomfortably. "I'll never be happy again," Chris wept.

“Oh, it can’t be that bad!” the bartender consoled.

“Macklemore killed my boyfriend,” Chris continued to sob.

The bartender wasn’t fazed. "Chin up, man!" she said, brightly. "It's just like my second cousin Giancarlo always said--"

“His dick was the only one I ever sucked," Chris sobbed, before collapsing in a heaving, crying pile face-first on the bar.

That wasn’t quite what the bartender was going to say, but like, okay. She filled up his glass with vodka this time and left the bottle. He was going to need it. And anyway, she had more important things to do, like watching _The Wolf of Wall Street_ in the back room with her friend the other teenage girl substitute bartender--they were both here on a college internship for the bartending major--and then practicing their improv routine for Club G!ay’s next comedy night.

Chris was alone in his corner now. He ignored the glass and swigged the vodka straight out of the bottle instead. By the four gods, this was the worst day of his life. He didn’t even bother looking up when he heard footsteps behind him; he hoped it was Macklemore coming to finish the job.

As it turned out, it wasn’t.

"Mr. Evans," Samuel L. Jackson said, stepping out from the shadows of Chris’s bar corner where he'd previously been lurking. Chris’s head shot up in surprise. "I'm here to talk to you about the Mackle No More Initiative.”

* * *

A black SUV pulled up to the front of Simon Cowell's mansion in the dead of the night. Its headlights flicked off as the ignition (remix) was turned. "This is the place," muttered the one in the driver's seat, before opening the door. Four figures decked out in ski masks exited the vehicle, making sure to shut the doors as quietly as possible.   
Well, most of them did, anyway. 

"Goddammit, Brendan! You want to wake up the whole block?!" Scolded James McAvoy as he slipped on a pair of leather gloves. 

"Jeeze, I'm sorry!  Why are we dressed like this anyway? It's not like we're robbing anyone or anything!" 

"Cheese and rice, man!" Michael yelled. "Why not say that a little louder, why don't you?"'

Sandra had had enough. "You're _all_ being loud, right now. This is the only day this week that we can enter Cowell's place without security guards catching us. We _can't_ mess this up, capiche?" The three men agreed, and trekked to the side of the estate underneath a balcony. 

"That Jackman asshole better have been right about this..." Muttered James under his breath as he gave both Brendan and Sandra a boost up with his hands. Michael winked at him before letting James climb on his back to reach art-deco style structure. The hairy X-Men star then hoisted his friend with benefits up, and the gang was ready to roll. 

Michael subconsciously yanked at his mask as he looked at one of the deactivated cameras. "Where the hell are we in relation to the diamond?" 

The quartet were in a hallway, with two doors on each side and one big door at the end, adjacent to where the staircase was. The staircase lead both up and down, and, if the pseudo LTBIA crew had remembered correctly, the painting in which the Homosexual Diamond was hidden was on the top floor. 

They creeped their way down the hall, each tiny _creak_ sending them into a nervous fit. They were a mere foot away from the stairs when the sound of a door opening behind them stopped them in their tracks. 

"What the Moby Dick are you doing here?"  

The four turned to see the tired form of Harry Styles. His long hair was tied back into two braids, and he grasped a blanket in his lil hand. He stood outside of the door marked in gold "Harry + Louis + 1". Go figure. 

"You're dreaming..." sing-songed Brendan as he waved his hands in a circular motion. Sandra slapped her hand to her masked forehead. 

Larry squinted the sleep out of his eyes for a second, before smiling. "Cool." He padded back into his room, closing the door with a satisfying click. A breath of relief exited the orifices of the four would-be jewel thieves, and they made their way up the steps. 

Upon reaching the top floor, they were absolutely floored with the breathtaking art display. Art drawn and painted with the most delicate of hands, such as "Bold and Brash", depicted the boys of One Direction in their truest form. 

"Wow..." breathed Brendan before he was yanked over to one of the most outstandingly gorgeous paintings of them all. 

The Mona Louis. 

"Hugh said the diamond was behind this painting," James rubbed his hands together. "If he was right, then we can save your father and we never have to cross paths ever again. You lot ready?" 

The other three moved their heads anxiously. This was it. The moment of truth. James slid the painting to the side, the frame gliding easily to reveal something that shocked everyone. 

An empty cube-shaped hole. 

"He tricked us, he fucking tricked us!" Michael shouted in anger, refraining from punching one of the marble sculptures with all his might. Brendan had no other inclination but to sob. 

"Wait," exclaimed Sandra. "There's a note!" She carefully picked it up from the hole and lifted up her mask to get a better look. "It says...'the item that you are searching for is far too powerful for the average human to hold, only a special human of special prowess can handle this load. Kept away from the world, quiet like a mouse, it is stored on Putin Ave, in the big warehouse.' Guys! It's in the warehouse on Putin Ave!" 

"You literally just read that, thank you." James rolled his eyes. He was really hoping that tonight would have been the end of it. Was the money really worth it? 

"Who the fuck!" A boy yielding a baseball bat emerged from the top stair. 

"Liam, omg, it's not that big of a deal. Let the nice drug dealers go," advised a clearly pregnant boy who resembled the saint in the painting they stood in front of. 

"No way! They tried to steal from us. And, now they're gonna pay!" The eldest of the brothers turned super saiyan, and roared fire around the art exhibit. 

"Let's get the hell out of here!!!" James shouted, and the group sprinted down the first set of stairs as Liam chased them. However, it was when they reached the second set of stairs that the situation turned bleak. 

The three men had made it to the bottom safely, but Liam's fire grazed Sandra on the shoulder, which sent her clutching the wound in pain, and misjudging where the next step was. She began to tumble down the stairs in slow motion, hitting the wall, the railings, the Legos one of the boys had left on the steps, and everything in between. She reached the bottom of the stairs bruised, and with all her limbs bent astray. 

"Sandra, no!!!" Brendan leaped to cover her broken body as Liam breathed one last breath of fire before fainting into Louis' arms. 

"Uh...sorry 'bout that, haha." The pregnant singer coughed awkwardly. "I'm gonna go back to bed now, bye!" He skipped back up the stairs, dragging his brother/bandmate behind him. 

Brendan pushed a strand of hair out of his ex-lover’s beautiful face. "Sandy...no. I never even got to tell you that I--I--" 

"We need to get out of here and get her to a hospital. Let's go before that freak of nature comes back to finish the job!" Michael said as he helped Brendan carry Sandra's body back outside. 

Little did Brendan know, his heart wouldn't be the only one that would be broken that night. 

* * *

Aaron and George held hands as they bowed to the adoring audience. The crowd was going wild--no, beyond wild. Even Bill Clinton, for all his previous complaints to Hill, couldn’t help but cheer along with them with a smile on his face. _Cobweb_ was a success, and Oui Trés Homo had saved the show and the day. It was sure to be a cult hit for years--nay, for centuries--to come.

The two men ran triumphantly off the stage, cheering and hollering. ‘We did it!” George cried. “Zach is going to be so proud of us!” Aaron pulled him into their dressing room, laughing and grinning as well.

“And to think,” Aaron said, removing the ripped toga with little to no shame in front of his teammate, “that none of that was even scripted!” He threw it aside. George caught it, beaming. “We’ll have to talk to Zach about writing that in, because honestly.”

“I know,” George agreed, as Aaron began unlacing George’s weird corset-toga thing. George hoped this was stage one of making out.

“It was so emotional,” Aaron went on, throwing his arms around George’s neck. “So gritty. So--”

“--nuanced?” Queen Latifah suggested, stepping from the shadows of their dressing room.

Aaron and George whirled around in shock. “Who the hell are you?” Aaron said, brow creased, “And how did you get in here?”

Her Highness Latifah cackled maniacally. By her side, Ryan Lewis the dog watched the two men eagerly. He barked. “Who am I?” Queen said. “Who am I?” (Somewhere, in the distance, Hugh Jackman’s head shot up; he could sense a Jean Valjean quote.) “I, Misters Tveit and Blagden, am the woman who is going to consume you to further the reign of Macklemore. I suppose you could call me….Your wedding planner?” She threw her head back and laughed again. Ryan Lewis joined her, letting out a…….bark…….of laughter as well.

“We haven’t, um, discussed marriage yet,” George said, blushing, “though I appreciate the offer.” He really wished this woman would leave so he and Aaron could make out. He was a simple man with simple pleasures. Like making out with his co-star turned teammate. That was a very welcome pleasure.

“You misunderstand,” Queen Latifah said. She was no longer laughing. She was also blocking the dressing room door. George didn’t think she was a very good wedding planner; there wasn’t a flower sample or fabric swatch in sight. “I’m not here to make a social call.”

“We know,” said Aaron, “you’re here to plan our wedding.”

“I love lilies,” George said with a sappy smile at Aaron. “Hypothetically speaking if we were to get married with no precedent, that is.” God, he wanted to make out already.

“ _No_! I’m here to--” Queen Latifah turned a pleading gaze to the sky. “--Elba give me strength--I’m here to crush you. I’m here to destroy you. I’m here to _gay marry_ you. I’ve been watching you two for a while,” she added. “Since the Sochi airport. Your bickering, your naked oil wrestling, George’s weird wet dreams--” George shrugged. “--I knew you two were my perfect target. And with each gay wedding performed under Macklemore’s all-loving and all-seeing nature, the more powerful he gets. Soon, he’ll become the most powerful Straight Ally in the WORLD and he’ll have domain over ALL the gays!” She laughed maniacally again.

“So...your plan is to bring happiness to a bunch of couples?” George said, slowly.

“Oh, Mr. Blagden,” Queen Latifah said. “Once Macklemore marries you, you join the ranks of his Straight Ally Army--a mindless slave doing his bidding for eternity! But I’ve said too much.” She snapped her fingers. Instantly, her casual-yet-stylish jumpsuit disappeared and white reverend’s robes took their place. Ryan Lewis’s dog collar became a priest’s collar. She held a Bible above their heads. “It’s time...for a wedding.”

George turned to Aaron in horror as the two friends backed away from Reverend Latifah. “Aaron, as much as I fantasized about marrying you--I never expected it to be like _this_.” He gestured about the room. It was unclear, however, whether he meant being married in an ex-sex club ex-sex room, being married by Queen Latifah, being married half-nude in ancient Greek regalia, or all of the above.

“I would’ve like to marry you too, George,” Aaron sighed, “after a proper dating length and engagement period, I mean. Just not like this either.”

Their backs hit the wall of the dressing room. There was nowhere left to go but out the window, but the drop was too long; even if they managed to get out of the window before Queen Latifah stopped them, there was no way they’d survive the drop. There was no choice, George realized, but to face their fate head-on and with dignity. He held out his hand to Aaron. If he was going to be forcefully married to the guy he had the hots for and then be forced to serve Macklemore forever and ever, at least he could do it holding hands with the guy he was being forcefully married to. “Do you permit it?” he said, resignation coloring his tone.

Aaron pressed his hand with a smile.

"Do you, Aaron Tveit," Queen Latifah said in her warm, sing-song voice, slowly advancing on the two men. She held the Bible above her head with a certain rapturous glee on her face. George gripped Aaron's hand tighter. "Take--"

Suddenly, loud music began to blare outside the dressing room window, getting closer with each second. Queen Latifah stopped dead in her tracks. All three of their heads swiveled to look at the source of the noise. It sounded like--it couldn't be--!

A grappling hook latched onto the windowsill, and seconds later Pharrell followed, bursting through the window in all his Mountie/Arby's fanatic glory. Below him, his black Lamborghini sat waiting, his 2014 top 40's hit "Happy" blaring from its amped-up stereo. Poised like he was in a GQ photoshoot, Pharrell tipped his hat to his Olympic rivals. "Need a lift, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Pharrell!" Aaron and George cried with relief, all their earlier vitriol about the R&B singer immediately forgotten. "Boy, are we glad to see you!" George exclaimed.

"Grab on," Pharrell said sharply, and in a flash Aaron and George latched on to either side of the man. Queen Latifah let out a scream of fury.

"NO! Ryan, GET THEM!"

Ryan Lewis the dog's rabid, snarling form lunged at the trio, but it was too late. With a wink and a chuckle of "Now this is one motorcycle you CAN'T ride," to Queen Latifah, Pharrell--Team Oui Trés Homo and grappling hook firmly in hands--backflipped out of the window and into his waiting Lamborghini.

“Buckle up,” said Pharrell coolly, disregarding the fact that Lamborghinis are not typically convertibles and his previous move should have been impossible. Aaron and George scrambled to obey his orders. Their hands were still clasped. Pharrell floored it, the _Best of Pharrell_ album drowning out Queen Latifah’s (and Ryan Lewis’s) howls of rage echoing behind them. “I’m sure y’all are wondering how you happened to _get lucky_ like that,” Pharrell said loudly to be heard over the music once they’d reached a safe distance.

Aaron and George nodded, still wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

Pharrell chuckled and, to the surprise of Oui Trés Homo, reached up into his hat and pulled out a badge. “FreshBI agent Pharrell,” he said, flashing the badge at them.

“His hat _is_ full of secrets!” gasped George.

Pharrell stuffed his FreshBI credentials back up into his beloved hat/lover and turned the music down slightly. “I’ve had my eyes on you two for a while as well,” he explained. “I was worried something like this would happen.” He shook his head. “Y’all are just too damn cute for your own good.”

“But--why?” said Aaron. “We’re rival teams. Why did you help us?”

“Oh, Mr. Tveit,” Pharrell chuckled merrily for the hundredth time this chapter, “I’ve simply taken a liking to you and Mr. Blagden.” He turned the music back up. “Oh! I love this one!” he exclaimed, and began singing along to himself singing ”Come and Get It Bae”. The result was a surreal layering of voices, making it seem like Pharrell had a double and, instead of dueling to the death to determine who the alpha double was, they decided to release an album together instead.

With their rescuer distracted, George squeezed Aaron’s hand to attract his attention. “Did you mean it?” he said, quietly, just for Aaron to hear. “What you said back there about marrying me?” And also making out.

Aaron was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Every word.”

George pulled him in by the collar of his incredibly ripped v-neck toga and kissed him passionately.

“Wooooo!” yelled Pharrell, beeping the car horn repeatedly (and getting several loud and heartfelt angry replies from fellow drivers on the road). Oui Trés Homo ignored him, too busy making out in the backseat. “Come and get it bae _indeed_!”

The three men--nay, the three _friends_ \--rode off into the cool night, Pharrell’s music lighting their way.

* * *

A shower of cold water landed on Barack's resting face, causing him to wake with a start. "Jet fuel can't melt steel beams!"  He shouted, rising with enough speed to give himself whiplash. After a quick onslaught of nausea, he began to orient himself with his surroundings. He was on his bed, accompanied by Joe (who was holding a bucket), and...

"John F. Kennedy?! What the hell are you doing here? Am I still dreaming?" 

Joe rose a hand to offer a firm slap to the president's face to prove that he was  _not_  in fact, dreaming, but the gentle ghost gave a look that advised against it. "No, my friend, you're awake. I'm your guardian ghost. I was assigned to you at birth. I've been the quiet force that's helped you along your career, and I know you better than you do." He booped Barack on the nose. "It's always been my dream to be able to talk to you, face to face. I just never knew when! There's rules and regulations against how often a ghost can communicate directly with their godhuman, but I knew, oh  _boy_ , I just knew that this had to be the right time."

Barack blinked. "Look, I don't really know what the deal is with this whole... _Fairy Odd Parents_ -esque shtick you're going for, but I'm way too busy to deal with it right now, so..." The greying man freed himself from the clutches of the bed sheets, and moved towards the vanity mirror. "You...you can go now. I'm sorry if I wasted your time, or whatever." 

"But, Barry, I! There's some things you need to know; things you need to understand before it eats you alive from the inside out. If I don't tell you now...by George, I think it'll be too late!" 

"John--" 

"My friends call me Jack." 

Barack looked off into the ether. "We're not friends, John." 

J-Fitz lowered his gaze to the carpeted floor. "I understand, I'll let myself out." He floated to the door, stopping to give an intense, longing gaze towards his godhuman. "If you ever change your mind, though, just click your heels three times. I think. I'm not actually sure if that's what you do, so don't take my word for it. I'll figure it out." He floated through the wood and off into the cold, cruel, world. 

"Welp...we still getting donuts or what?" Joe spoke cautiously into the air. Barack braced himself up against the vanity, looking at his reflection. 

"Not today, kiddo. I know what he wanted. He--he wanted me to come out." 

"Wtf the fuck," whispered the white. 

"He wanted me to come out as a...mutant." 

Before Joe could even make any sound of alarm, every light in the hotel sweet shut off, and a crash sounded through the darkness. 

* * *

“He’s awake,” said a voice. Sebastian opened his eyes.

Robert Redford, in all his somehow de-aged and impossibly youthful glory, because young Robert Redford could #fuck me up any day tbh, smiled at him. “Hello,” Redford said. “Feeling better?” By God, his face was so…rugged.

He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could move. He didn’t remember where he was. Or who he was.

Redford patted his arm--his arm that was strapped to a chair?--and continued to smile. “Welcome to the world, Winter Ally,” the de-aged movie star said gently. “It's time we showed everyone just what the gay agenda can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry we died lol we graduated high school and had like 500000 exams  
> we strongly recommend u follow any and all links posted in this chapter  
> hit us up on hte twitter and tumblr as always  
> NEXT UP: FINALE!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> we're so sorry for this


End file.
